copyright aplazar, 2015
Every night when I settle into my pillow, a strange thing
happens. Just as I close my eyes and allow my brain to float...to drift...to
slow down, dreams from the previous night flash before my mind's eye. Bits and
pieces of vivid scenes flit and dissolve into sensations, movement, colors,
buildings, and people. A sense of place evolves, and it is always the locale of
the dream that I had the night before.
What's going on here? I rarely think of the dreams during
the day, but when it happens, it's like a light clicks on in my head and I remember
it, often in its entirety.
For example, on Monday night the most powerful dream of the
evening involved me running around Salzburg. That's right, I took off for
Austria in my pajamas and wandered cobblestone streets, passed high-spired
churches, and drooled over delicacies in bakery windows. There was a sense of
urgency that went with this dream, a searching for...something or someone.
Maybe it was an apple strudel or Berliner (jelly donut). I can't remember that
part. But the scenes, streets, buildings, all came back as soon as my head hit
the pillow the next night. In
seconds. Maybe milliseconds.
On Tuesday, I dreamed of my father. He passed eighteen years
ago, and although you might think it odd, I consider these dreams
"visits" with him. They are always pleasant, full of conversation,
validation, and affection. In this dream, he was teaching me how to fillet a
fish. Dad was a great fisherman. I guess in Heaven cleaning a fish isn't quite
as gross as in real life. This fish had no stinky innards and its flesh was
flakey and white, as if already grilled to perfection with lemon and plenty of
butter.
On Wednesday, similar images returned before I moved on to
new dreams. I saw Dad, the fish, and then swirled into a new adventure.
Is there a scratch pad memory in our brains that keeps an
imprint there from the night before? The Dream RAM, or something? Maybe that's
it.
Some of my best dreams—mostly the ones involving skiing on
gorgeous fluffy snowy hills—come back often, months or years later. Now, see, it's
extra cool because I don't downhill ski (I'm a wimp), but I do cross-country
ski. Merged in these dreams are the thrilling sensations of sliding down a hill
with the freedom of being upright on skis. With no fear, of course, and no
falls. It's bliss.
Then there are the recurring dreams. Like the one where I
can't find my locker in school, or my class schedule has disappeared and I
panic.
How long has it been since I've wandered the academic
hallways?
Decades.
The flying dream also recurs frequently. I cherish that one.
Willing myself from my earthly bonds, I lift up, higher and higher, until with
arms spread I soar across the skies. Sigh. It's the best one of all.
These connections, from night to night, as well as the
connections with loved ones lost, are not dissimilar to another sensation that
hits me daily.
When I'm writing a novel, I need to be in a certain zone,
immersed fully in the story and in my character's mind before I can move on to
the next chapter. Most of the time I write a chapter a day, and each time
before I begin the next chapter I need to review the work from the day before
to get into that “zone.” I ease into it, with anti-noise headphones doing their
thing, relaxed in my comfy leather chair with my dogs sleeping on the rug
nearby. It establishes the ground plane, and it's essential. The feeling is not
unlike that dreamy quality of just-before-you-sleep drowsiness. There's a bit
of a dreamlike quality to writing. After all, it's all happening through
pictures in your head. Right?
Is it close to the subliminal? Do writers tap near their
subconscious when they create? Is it like this for an artist or musician?
I wouldn't be surprised.
The layers of our lives are complex. Those deep-seated
pockets of the subconscious, where fears from childhood fester, are not
impossible to breach with focused therapy. The middle ground—the place where we
dream—floats beneath consciousness and above fundamental memories, wafting like
clouds waiting to descend. They're all connected.
The next time you lie down to dream, notice what happens.
Can you connect the events to the night before? To a commercial you saw on TV?
A dialog you read in a book? A fervent desire?
Think about it.
And remember, we're all connected. Whether through God,
oxygen, atoms, the Internet, or something more ethereal and lovely, we're all
connected.
Aaron Paul Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
I've never been able to connect my dreams from one night to the other like you do. Each night I'm inundated with different things, sometimes on the book I'm working on. But they don't connect.
ReplyDeleteOh Viv, You're missing out!! I have had dreams continue where they left off the previous night.. I love these.. Of course, when they're good ones ;)
ReplyDeleteAaron, I LOVE the way you ended this
We're all connected. Whether through God, oxygen, atoms, the Internet, or something more ethereal and lovely, we're all connected.
Viv we connected though facebook =P See? We do all connect!!!!!
Aileen, I guess you're right. lol. I never thought of that.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Viv and Aileen, for stopping by to comment. It's a fun topic, and we three are definitely well-connected to each other now through Aileen's amazing publicity services! Have a wonderful day, ladies. ;o)
ReplyDelete