IlluminationMarch 22, 2011
I am trying to read the handwriting of a madwoman who was scrawling words on a legal pad just seconds after awakening. It’s best, if one wishes to “capture” the dream that is quickly wisping away out of ones ears, to write it down as quickly as possible upon waking. The problem this madwoman has is that her handwriting is scary enough when she’s awake. With two bleary eyes barely open and in the dark because the lights really can’t be turned on for at least a full minute (remember that danged light sensitivity), this handwriting seems to make about as much sense as the quickly fading dream.
We’ve had a lot of fun talking about dreams and interpreting what our own minds are trying to tell us about the world around us and our place in it. Sometimes the meaning of a dream is so clear it’s as though our psyche was sending us a me-mail right through subconscious-to-conscious synapse servers. Those are the fastest connections in the west, and the most often ignored. Pity, really.
I, madwoman, have now deciphered the notes I scribbled on the legal pad:
inane details in a huge disaster
pheasant bone-in frozen game hens
to cook where
5 unk males
Yeah, it sounds like a mess. But I am remembering the dream clearly from those notes, and am ready to face my subconscious me-mail.
The dream didn’t really begin as much as morph from the previous one, which was lost in the wisps. The setting is a kitchen, unfamiliar to me awake, that seems to be mine and familiar in the dream state. I am very agitated in the dream, trying to find pans and utensils and, strangely, the oven door, which seems to have disappeared in a mass of rubble. People are talking all around me about the most inane things I have ever heard. I am trying to find equipment necessary to feed people and they are arguing about whether the frozen, packaged rock Cornish game hens on the rubble-strewn counter are pheasant bone-in or pheasant bone-out (the plastic packaging is marked Pheasant Bone-in! in white lettering over a bright red starburst graphic but they don’t seem to see it, or care). I don’t ask, in the dream, why a Cornish game hen would even have a pheasant bone, or where the bone might be located. Some vague dream memory tells me that it’s a breast bone that can be removed, or not, depending on how you wish to present your cooked hen. I have no vague dream memory about what is done with the pheasant from which the bone was removed.
Stopping to look around, I see that the rubble is not confined to my kitchen. It is visible for as far as the eye can see, and people in rags are picking through it. It seems unlikely that there would be anything of value in the piles. Everything is small. Other than burned out cars, there is nothing larger than a hub cap in the piles. The people keep picking, picking. My kitchen is barely standing and the rest of the house has vanished into those piles.
I am remembering a white light engulfing everything, a hot, hot, wind, and a blast that defies description. But it doesn’t seem recent. All of the people in my kitchen are wearing rags as I am, and there is evidence of healing wounds on everyone. The scars are deep; the wounds were serious.
Turning back to the people around the counter, I see a young woman I know and care about arguing with five men of various ages whom I do not know in my waking state. I seem to know them in the dream and we all seem to belong together, somehow. They are still arguing about the Cornish game hens, the impossible, plastic-packaged game hens that should be as strange to them as they would be to a Neanderthal man. How could they be frozen? There was no power. Where were they frozen? There was no freezer or refrigerator remaining in the blasted-out kitchen. Where could they be cooked? The oven door, and now the oven itself, were missing.
Six people were standing in the center of a post-apocalyptic, blasted out kitchen, arguing the finer points of game hen preparation as if they would be preparing them (they wouldn’t be, I could feel that), and as if they expected them to be there, sitting frozen on the counter even in the midst of hell, waiting to become their meal.
Everything in stasis, waiting to serve them was the feeling that jolted me awake.
There is no mystery to meaning in that dream. It screams its messages.