A Story about Dreams

The truth will set you free.  But only after it is finished with you.

David Foster Wallace

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He concluded that if you live long enough you will accumulate, in an involuntary manner, dreams the way movie buffs collect a library of their favorite films.  But then he realized that no single dream, no matter how vivid and detailed, ever comprised, of themselves, one, complete, beginning-to-middle-to-end short-length movie.

No, they were more like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, frames from different trailers of some obscure opus  – that is, each a piece of something whole that could be only understood if and when the parts were somehow properly assembled by light.

Each dream was more a scene.  In sum, a jumble of disconnected snippets – pieces of string.

And as for sequels?  Yes.  Often the scenes repeated themselves.

There was the recurring River Charles and the boat ride, and West Point and football – with the West Point dormitory that was also a small student center in a manner that only dreams allow one thing to be simultaneously two contradictory things without being an oddity in any way.

And there was various scenes involving his second wife – the unemotional one – who left him and his son simply because she had no interest in sharing what little of herself she had – and besides she reasoned marriage and family were but a photo-op with fridge financial and cosmetic social benefits.  Everyone but her: disposable in time.

He never dreamt of his father who left when he was an infant. The exit befitted a coward’s flight from battle … His absence from dreams was merciful for he was simply unwelcome … no where on the dreamer’s cosmic “must-do” list.

And his wife – who died so young?  Only one dream and so pristine it was, so perfect, so lasting.

Its colors soft, its content warm and comforting.  A short clip in slow motion. Slow as to be savored, recalled, felt in every finite detail until he joined her in his death, and her resurrection.

There he stood in Her dream – there on the low-end of the sloping hill that was for him and other kids the place to go sledding in Powder House Park.

An adult of indiscriminate age, at the bottom of the hill facing the small string of stores where Loude’s offered its homemade candy and ice cream, on College Ave, near Tufts, right where as a little boy he had seen General Eisenhower pass by in an open Cadillac convertible.

He stood directly across from that small driveway that separated Loude’s and the other storefronts from a nice, somewhat Victorian house.  There, at that very spot across from the driveway, a car passed slowly by.

It seemed driver-less … yet there She was on the driver’s side in the back seat, looking as she did in her late twenties, turned toward him as if she was passing in review of an army of one – him, only him, he was the one, her entire army 

She saw him and he saw her.  Their eyes caressed … and the car passed slowly by headed down College Ave toward the Methodist Church and Davis Square.

A dream too short, but everlasting – a dream to say: love does not die and neither death nor time divide.

Dreams.  Dreams.  Dreams.

… so cut up, reels edited by a madman, a captain of chaos whose messages are tangled, out of sequence, twisted and puzzling, a shoebox full of visual knots … an opus awaiting Light.

Shalom.

Postscript – Carl Jung said, “People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own soul.”  Dreams expose the soul, make the unconscious conscious.  Dreams give us a path to freedom, to understanding, belief, faith and God in God’s natural state – supernatural existence.

 

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