Today I would like to pay homage to the director of that great film that I saw last night. Really, he deserves an Oscar. Not only did he manage to create a beautiful, suspenseful and emotion-laden story, but he did something similar the night before. And the night before that. Right: I’m praising the Director of my night dreams.
It’s difficult writing, reimagining and recreating for someone else, i.e. you, dear reader, the experience of dreaming. Writers sometimes put dreams in their novels or short stories. This effort doesn’t usually work for me, only because I end up projecting onto the story’s characters the same super-vivid dream experience and capabilities of my own life.
Every night, virtually, my personal Dream Director comes up with a brilliant dream. My nightly dreams are, as mentioned already, very, very vivid, but they’re also creative, ingenious, emotionally super-charged, daring, vibrant, and wonderful.
Just last night, in my dream (I say “night” but I must have had it between 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. when I awoke) my father, who passed away last February, and I were desperately looking for my parked Cressida (a car that our family drove in the 80’s, I think) on steep maze-like streets surrounding The Saidye Bronfman Theatre (no longer called that since the 90’s, I believe) after watching a very short and disappointing play.
At one point, my mother, who passed away in 1984, called me on my cell phone worried sick about my father, but I reassured her, happily stating that he was strong and doing OK. You know those alleyways sometimes found behind large grocery stores? This theatre was surrounded by hundreds of them, narrow, trash-strewn, trafficky, and my car was parked on one of them somewhere. I thought I could distinguish it many, many times but when we got close we saw that it was, in fact, another car. Mine could not be found. I became more and more desperate, although my father seemed to be enjoying the search.
Where in my little brain does this Dream Director and screenplay writer reside?
I witnessed, in one memorable dream not too long ago, an extraordinary concert in a filled-to-the-rafters concert hall, with hundreds of choir singers belting out their team’s song that somehow I knew would save the world. It was a competition, as in American Idol, except the winning of the contest would somehow rescue the world from an impending calamity, like an asteroid about the hit the Earth. I remember clearly remembering the intricate melody and complex harmonies of the winning song; the feeling created in witnessing the song’s performance was similar to that of watching a musical during the heartfelt rendition of one of its signature theme songs by a stage-filled throng of passionate singers.
It sometimes seems that the duller my life, the more dramatic my dreams.
No small-scale, little dreams for me. My dreams are like films you watch that, when they’re through, you’re unable to pull yourself away from the passing credits. You feel as if the movie has somehow changed your life; your entire being is charged with, and sensitized by, emotional energy.
I rarely have recurring dreams. My Dream Director and screenwriter is far too creative for that. There is one, however, that has come back more often than others. This one is the high school/college Horror Show where I have signed up for a course, advanced mathematics, for example, which is far too complex and difficult for my academic level. I have stopped going to this class but am still signed in, and everyone else in the class has progressed in the textbook except me and I still have to take the exam at the end of the semester.
My Dream Director loves stories involving sports. I have very often been the goal-scoring hockey hero who has no difficulty getting the puck into the net no matter how strange the angle; the homerun hitting baseball star, the football running back somehow able to weave my way through the toughest and meanest opponents who are simply unable to stop me. Not only do I perform magnificently on the ice or on the field, but there is a strong undertone of drama to these dreams, as if much is depending on the victory for the team I’m playing for.
Of course I’ve had my share of erotic dreams. My dream lovers are as interesting, or maybe more so, than the most seductive and sensual women found on screen. I could get lost recalling the tryst that I enjoyed a few hours earlier with my alluring, sexually aggressive and beautiful lover.
So, hats off to you, Dream Director, I pay homage to you and am a little bit in awe. You are strong and powerful, you work in and on my mind while I am most vulnerable. My mind is like clay to you, the master. I could never write stories as wonderful as you put me through, the main character, almost every night.