Sunday, March 22, 2009

What Dreams May Come

It's said that we dream every night during REM sleep, though we hardly remember those dreams. Most of them are incoherent and probably not worth remembering anyway.

However, I think sometimes we have dreams so distinct, so bizarre, and so close to waking that they stick in our minds.

I can still remember having reoccurring dreams during high school years in which I had dental problems--my teeth kept falling out, or I could remove all of them at once, palette and all. (Yeah, those were fun ones.) I also had a long involved dream last summer while camping which included a bear attack on the family, brought on by my sister, who had placed enticing food on my cabin's screen door windowsill.

The past couple weeks I've been remembering several dreams.

Throughout the past week I'd been concerned about the milk in my fridge turning bad; its expiration date was last Monday and there was still a lot of it left. So every day, I'd smell and taste it before pouring a glass or a bowl of cereal, or making broccoli soup. All this paranoia culminated Friday night in a dream about milk.

But my most recent bizarre dream was last week. I was back in college, taking a class from my philosophy advisor, Dr. Holland. Joining me was Andy Miller, with whom in real life I'd shared many classes. The course was not about philosophy but rather poetry; however, we never actually discussed the subject of poetry. Instead, Dr. Holland told the class about her good friend who'd just had a miscarriage and who was also "the best chef in the Catholic Church."

I've been racking my brain trying to figure out where all that came from.

On a different subject, yet no less surreal than dreams: Friday morning I returned to work after my days off to find a voicemail message saved on the main office phone. I assumed it was a lost and found message, but I recognized our former boss Cowboy Brad's voice immediately. It was from Tuesday, St. Patrick's Day, and the message follows verbatim:
Brad: Cottonwormseatthecabbagethisyear? Cottonwormseatthecabbagethisyear? Cottonwormseatthecabbagethisyear?

(In bad Irish brogue): Ah, by gosh and begorra! It’s the luck of the Irish and nothing to shake a shillelagh at! It’s St. Sethy’s day!

Kathy (Brad's wife, in the background): Hello, Uncle Seth! It’s your Auntie Kathy!

Brad: Ah, ha, ha, ye little leprechaun!