Sammy and Boyce know they are free to contact me in the middle of the night in order to report a dream. Dream communication, whether to a person or a journal, must be done quickly upon waking in order for the dream to be remembered. First, I encourage everyone, upon waking, to stay still for a number of minutes with their eyes closed. You’ll be surprised how much of your dreams come back to you. I can't say you'll be pleasantly surprised, as the dream may simply be a quasi-coded message to you that your life completely sucks.
Boyce called me last night to report what I can only describe as a truly unique dream. Very few times are dreams in no way laden with anxiety or suspicion. Boyce seems to have had a 100% positive dream with very little opportunity for doubt or dread. He said Sammy and I were in the dream, too (always exciting to hear). The three of us heard about a treasure that was hidden somewhere in an old western town.
Thus far, the dream has a lot opportunity for threat or anxiety. Will we search forever and never find the treasure? Will we find it only to discover the treasure is really just the putrefied corpse of our childhood dreams? Or, as is always possible, will someone simply start chasing us for absolutely no reason. (I will one day write a book called Awesome Dreams I Had That Were Ruined by a Random Murderer Chasing Me For No Good Reason.)
Boyce told me, “So Sammy said he knew where the treasure was. We got in a car and went to the house. I mean, straight there. No detours with big snakes or earthquakes. We just drove up to the house. Sammy directed us to an upstairs room where the floor was dirt. We began to dig, and about six inches under the surface—it wasn’t even hard to get to—were all these money bags. Like from the cartoons, with the symbol on them and everything.”
The only potential fly in the ointment was when as we celebrated finding the treasure a young woman came to the door of the room. She said, “You can’t take that money. I won’t let you!” But unlike the majority of the population, Boyce addressed this potential threat: “Get out of here. You can’t do shit.” And that’s exactly what she did, in tears no less. We piled the treasure into our car and drove away, laughing and celebrating. Boyce woke up happy. When he called me a few minutes later he was still happy. When he looked at his wife in bed as we talked, he was still happy. He called me this morning to say that when he woke up Boyce Jr. for school he was still happy. When he took him to the bus stop in the freezing cold, he was still happy.
That dream can have no other interpretation than, "I am content." Clearly Boyce is unlike the masses of Americans whose zombie-nature, born from mindless consumption of gadgets and snack crackers, is the only thing stopping them from feeling the depths of a joylessness that ends only in death. Way to be, Boyce!
Of course, not all seemingly nominal dreams have such interpretations. Once, not long after Rachel and I had met, she told me about a dream where she was driving around with her brother, who sat in the back seat. They drove around town comparing gas prices. “I must not have very much on my mind,” she said. I asked her if she knew how much gas their car had in it. She said it was funny I should ask that: "The gauge was actually where the rear view mirror generally is. It was almost empty.” I got quiet for a few minutes and finally said, “If you want to speak with your brother again, you should.” She walked out of the room, but when she came back a couple seconds later she was crying and put her arms around my neck. I could really feel her shaking against my body as she sobbed, and when she whispered, "I don't know why I can't forgive him...I don't know why," I could feel her breath on my neck. All in all, a pretty awesome moment.
