Dream Journal


They say you should write down your dreams. OK!

You’re sitting at your local bistro or bar reflecting on life as we often do and suddenly it hits you. “Life is a pussy.”  

As I understand it, and let’s just say for the sake of transparency alcohol is involved, our options are  “eternal” life, which Christians mete out like a free turkey at Thanksgiving, or settling for death, which is as far down the spectrum from eternal as one can get. We get sand kicked in our face and we die. 

But where’s the middle ground? We get old, sick and just die? C’mon, life, don’t be such a pussy. You need to fight back. Billy Moscowitz steals your lunch and you just cry and go hungry?  Peanut butter and jelly is worth some effort. Punch that bully in the face and live to fight another day.

This of course is why religion tries so hard to sell us on the ideas of heaven and hell which are ridiculous. These are our options? Get sick and die or opt for the omnipotent man or woman in the sky who sees and hears all. 

Can you imagine if every one who ever lived a good life got into heaven? Spacious, roomy, people floating around with their halos and harps. I hate the harp. It would suck. You’d wait forever to get a table. Flights would be overcrowded and the supermarket would be a nightmare. Heaven would actually be hell. Now there’s a switch. No, dead is definitely the answer. Just not too soon, right?

What we need is a third option. A kind of a life account where we can bank a few trips around the sun for the end when we need them most. One more trip to Hawaii before you throw dirt on me or put me in the big oven. The grim reaper calls and says, “Your time has come,” and you say, “But I’ve got a coupon, I’m going to Maui.”

Hey, it’s just as plausible as the the guy or girl in the sky thing and a lot more practical in my opinion.

So the moral to this little exercise is to savor each day because you never know when your time will come and the lines in heaven are hell.

So then I wake up and write this all down. My dreams are always like this. Genius when I’m asleep and kind of convoluted and non-sensical in reality. What am I processing here? That I don’t want to die? That if and when I get to heaven I want to be a stand up comic? Hey, ladies and germs, thanks for coming out. I’ll be here forever. No, really. 

The answer is I don’t know. I think when I dream I’m trying to entertain myself. Sleeping is necessary but boring so I’m working on my routine until I wake up and realize that much of what I’ve written doesn’t make any sense. While I’m awake I try to decipher it and look forward to going to sleep to see what happens next. Although I have to admit the idea of a life coupon does appeal to me a great deal. I’ll have to look into that some more tonight.

Next Night

The waitress came and I ordered Eggs Benedict and orange juice. 

She said, “Benedict and….?” 

I said, “Orange juice.” She looked puzzled. I said, “Orange juice,” like five more times. She didn’t understand.   I finally gave up and ordered coffee. 

Again, my dreams are always like this. Something doesn’t work. There’s always a problem. If I’m in a gun fight the bullets just kind of ooze out of my gun as the villain’s bullets whiz by. If I’m ordering breakfast I lose the ability to say orange juice. I wonder what this says about me? Maybe I should see a shrink. 

The next night I  dreamed I had invented the concept of dark noir. A way of filming that gets to a  climax in a scene and then the screen just goes black and allows the viewer to imagine what’s happening. In my dream the concept was genius. In my waking life it made no sense at all. Oh well, back to the salt mines. Did you know that salt was once more valued than gold? Now they just say too much of it is bad for you. What if they decided gold was bad for you? Would people just say, “Oh well, back to the gold mines”? That was a lot funnier in my head than it was in black and white. Oh well, back to the gold mines.

The funniest part about the orange juice dream is that what I really wanted to drink was a glass of red wine but even in my dream it didn’t make sense to order wine with breakfast. See, there again, I have no ability, even in my dreams, to truly express myself. So what if I ordered red wine for breakfast? It’s a dream for pity sakes. So I order orange juice, which apparently I’ve lost the ability to say and settle on coffee. There’s a truly deep message in there somewhere. Maybe I should see a shrink.

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