Dream a Little Dream

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again, and again and again.  Only it was not the Manderely of Daphne du Maurier's mind.  This one had no name and came from the creations of my own mind. 

As a point I hate when writers write about dreams.  Usually they are as dull  as hearing someone tell you their dreams in real person and usually it has little plot point.

Not many people are aware of the fact that I am a dreamer.  I make up stories in my head all day long about the strangers I see, or the actual people I meet.  That is not the kind of dreamer I am talking about.

I am what is called a vivid or lucid dreamer. I dream like the movie Inception, or Groundhog Day, or Nightmare on Elm Street.  Oft times I am aware of the fact I am dreaming and I am able to marvel in the things going on around me. 

Much in the same way I do when I am awake, I know I am awake and I marvel at the stories that pop into my head about my surroundings.

I recall my dreams from my childhood.  Scary ones mostly.  I have dreamt I met the devil (he drove a VW Bug and wore an expensive suit), The Virgin Mary (She looked much like a prettier Jacki O and drank tea with white gloves on while signing autographs), just the other night I dreamt I met Barack Obama, and I am still kind of pissed off at him for what he said to me.

I have watched my children die with me frozen in some dream like grip unable to save them.  I have seen my husband come back to life just to tell me he never loved me.  I have had my father sit at the foot of my bed after delivering my first child and nod with approval.  Okay that one may be chalked up to pain meds.

I dream of houses, water, mountains, secret rooms.  I dream of elevators that make Willy Wonka's look like a trip on a mall escalator.

I can awake from a dream be awake for an hour or so and pick up where I left off.  That is where I am now.  I am sitting at my kitchen table pounding out these words with a bit of frustration, anger and fear.

Today alone I have witnessed the death of so many people in my dream.  Every time I tried to change it someone else died.  So much for a relaxing nap.  I was afraid to go back to sleep and have it all pick back up again and be inside that macabre house.

Sleep did find me, and I was at Manderley again. This time it was the corpses of the family pets reanimated from Hell to kill and slaughter my family.

Last week in my slumber I was at the Hotel del Coronado (where I have actually never been) having coffee with Hemingway.  This week my dreams make Stephen King novels look like a episodes of Sesame Street.

I do not know why this gift of vivid or lucid dreaming has been given to me.  When I do extrapolate on a particular dream I often make people jealous.  I get responses of , "Wow I usually dream I am out of laundry detergent."

I am making coffee now because I can not risk going back to Manderley a third time.  I would rather be awake and tired. 

I have read books on my kind of dreaming.  I know what Freud, Jung, and Miss Cleo would each tell me about my dreams.

Tonight however I am in like minds with Descartes; " I am accustomed to sleep and in my dreams to imagine the same things that lunatics imagine when awake."

Now I will try to balance my visions and eradicate them from my faculty by drinking coffee while keeping a keen eye on my pets lest they turn evil with eyes protruding, flesh falling off and I must hack them to death, again.