Every night.
I keep a small journal on my nightstand, right next to my bed. I wake up in the morning, in the middle of the night, whenever, and write down the images from the dreams. The content ranges from far out to definitive and realistic. No matter what, I always remember the dream with clarity when I wake up. And that's not so common.
I love that I dream. I dream in IMAX- full color, sound, and audience participation. I dream about meeting famous people whom I admire; Anne Rice and Willian Shakespeare frequent my dreams, often playing the parts of sage, offering sound wisdom and advice. Anne once told me, "Hold the mayo, honey, because it's once on the lips, forever on the hips." Good Ol Willie spouts commercial quips such as, "Butter. Paaarkaaay!"
I have reoccuring dreams in which John Wayne and Marilyn Monroe are the proprietors of a Death Ranch where bus loads of (unsuspecting) people are hauled in and hunted by wealthy sportsmen. I've been shot by Will Smith seven times and stabbed by Ronald Regan (muchly reminiscent of Texas Chainsaw Massacre where Grandpaw gets a lick at the girl with the mini-sledge... Nancy had to hold the knife for Ronnie...) and I've hidden in the brush with Charles Barkley, who, for all his bullshit on the basketball court, turns out to be a whining, sniveling, hysterical pussy. The last prisoner standing is given an obscenely large sum of money and gets full membership to the club. Man, let me tell you... it's not a good idea to turn down the membership. Last time I did that, Pauly Shore snatched back my bag o' money and shot me in the face.
I dream in Fucked-Up-O-Vision.
Last night, however, my dream made total sense. It was less like a dream than it was like a real encounter. I hear the traffic on the road, I could feel and smell the grass under my feet, I could touch the cold rain as it fell on my skin.
Last night my dear friend Paul was alive and well, and for the first time since he died five years ago, I wasn't talking to a ghost, or an angel, or a corpse. I've dreamed of him hundreds of times since his death- the first just two days after his funeral. For five years, in each dream, he's been a transparent, corporeal shadow of his former self. I've seen him floating in the air, I've seen him rotting in his coffin under the ground, I've seen him shining with a pure inner light as god's own Angel. But a couple of hours ago, he was alive!
I touched him, groped him, pinched him and he didn't melt under my fingers. I could FEEL him. There were strong, healthy muscles under his skin and as I embraced him I could smell the cologne that he always wore- Obsession. His hair was fine and blonde and still cut very short. He smiled and the dimples jumped out, such a beautiful face to look upon. I touched his lips, his cheeks, his hands and chest. I heard him speak, and it was a voice I've wanted to hear for such a long time. And I didn't cry, as I always do.
Because he was alive, he wasn't dead, and so there was no call to be sad. We talked and laughed, went to a party. We touched constantly, and I can still feel his hand in mine, his arm laid on my shoulders. He took my necklace and put it around his neck. He chewed on the small charm- a simple golden cross. The two of us waited until nightfall and played Flashlight Tag in the woods. We held rough burlap sacks and went snipe hunting. We talked and sang old school rap songs starting with 'Bitch Betta Have My Money' by AMG. Our favorite.
I've had those kind of real dreams before- I once met George Carlin in the Mall and ended up having lunch with him in Garfield's Pub. I went snowboarding with Ricki Rachtman from Headbanger's Ball, pushed him off the lift, he broke his leg and I felt terrible. One time, I even pinned my mom's arms down, sat on her chest, and hawked loogey's all around her head like a halo. And for all of these dreams, I actually had to think, "Now wait a minute, that COULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED!"
And this dream of Paul, it was a hundred thousand times more realistic than any of those. And, unlike those others, I woke up and I WANTED it to be real. I've never wanted for something to be real as much in my entire life. I cried for a long time this morning when I faced that it was just a dream and my friend was still long since dead. And I knew, too, that I would give up every dream, the ability the dream even, and I'd give up every hope and talent I have now or will ever possess just so that dream COULD be real.
The sad thing is this: The dream was just that, A dream. But his death and my tears, pain, guilt and regrets... those are all too real.
Paul, I miss you very much. Please be okay, where ever you are.
