I had a really vivid dream last night -- incredibly detailed. Few people like reading about other people's dreams -- I know this -- but I'm going to write about it anyway, because I want to, and this blog is for nothing other than writing about what I want to write about.
I have my best dreams early in the morning, after I've already awoken once. Usually around five am I get up and take a pee and then go back to sleep until my alarm goes off at seven or the kids wake me up, which ever comes first. If I dream, and I don't dream often (or if I do I don't remember it and remembering a dream is a necessary part of what we colloquially call "dreaming"), it's during this time.
This morning's dream started with S calling me on my cell phone and asking me if I would go to a "mindfulness retreat" with her friend Jen (who exists only in this dream; she's not a real person). There was a reason why -- S was going to go and couldn't or something like that -- but I can't remember it exactly now. Despite having never before met Jen, I agree to accompany her. In real life, last night, S told me of a woman she used to know who now teaches people some bullshit called Reiki, so, although I wasn't thinking of this actively in my dream, I suspect it was the implicit source of this narrative. If not, it's an uncanny coincidence.
Back to the dream: I'm in a car, on the way to the retreat, with Jen, who strikes me as a nice, normal person. She's one of those petite, energetic women, dressed casually in a v-neck t-shirt and jeans. She's driving a red convertible; I'm in the passenger's seat. We're driving through Tacoma, Washington, at night, crossing the Narrows Bridge into a heavily wooded area near Gig Harbor. We're making small talk; she's touting the retreat. She's apparently a regular at it. We drive deep into the forest on a rural road, before coming to a massive, wooden geodesic dome.
"This is it," she says. "You're really gonna like this."
We get out of the car and the grounds are beautiful. We're in an amazingly lush grotto with gorgeous swimming pools. The lights are turned down low, and we are greeted by the organizers of the retreat. Everybody seems to know each other and know Jen, and they're speaking with a tone and a lingo that signals they're the insiders, and I'm the outsider. The men look like hippies -- parodies of hippies, really; they're dirty and shirtless, with long hair and brown teeth -- but the women are immaculately put-together. They are all beautiful. Their hair is intricately coiffed; they have on glittery eye makeup; and they're clad in some sort of all-white wrap.
"Serenity, welcome," they say to Jen, "I see you brought a friend." I can't tell if they think this is a good thing or a bad thing. They're robotically pleasant. Jen smiles at them, heads inside the dome, and half-motions me to come with her. Charily, I do. I have that Eyes Wide Shut feeling: I'm fairly certain whatever awaits won't be good for me, but I'm too intrigued to step off the path that has been laid before me.
Inside, there is a long hallway with a common area at the end, where people are mingling. There are dozens of tiny rooms off the hallway; most of their doors are shut, but a few of them are ajar. I peek in and see old-fashioned self-flagellation devices -- a belt with spikes on the inside*, a cilice or hairshirt, and a cat o' nine tails. It creeps me out, and I want to leave, but I can't. It's like I'm in an old arcade game, and I can only move in one direction: further down the hall.
*The great mathematician Blaise Pascal used to wear a belt like this, and he would tighten it a notch each time he thought an impure thought.
In the common area, Jen seems to know everybody again. She's approached by a few folks who ask her if she's ready for a "session." She says she is and goes off into a room, without acknowledging me at all. I'm left to stand there and look around. People are grouping off and going into private rooms, and the crowd is shrinking. I'm hoping nobody approaches me, but I also don't want to be left alone.
Eventually, a guy comes up to me and starts a conversation. He's tall, with a mane of wavy brown hair, and he's shirtless. He's simultaneously lanky and chubby -- like, his frame is slender, but he has a flabby belly and chest. There's an episode of Broad City in which the guy who plays Badger in Breaking Bad has a cameo, and you see him with his shirt off, and that's what this guy looks like. That's a deep cut, I know, but it's what I thought in my dream.
"Would you like to join me in a session?" he asks.
"What do you do in a session?" I respond.
"That's the wrong question."
"What's the right question?"
"Why are you here?"
"I just came with Jen. She's friends with my wife."
"Ah, Serenity. Yes, she's a sorceress of mindfulness. But, I'm interested in you. Again, I make the proposition: Would you join me in a session?"
"I don't think so. I'm good."
"No! You are not good! Nobody is good! But, we here know we are not good, and that, paradoxically, makes us good."
"Kinda Socratic."
"I disagree. You are not as smart as you think you are. But, you have potential, and I would very much like for you to join me in a session."
"It's not going to happen."
"Fine. But, I will find you on Grindr later."
"I'm not on Grindr."
"Ha-ha-ha! Sure, dude, sure."
He vanishes from sight like people can do in dreams, and now I'm alone. I realize I've gotten myself into some sort weird (masochistic? sex?) cult, and I need to get out fast. I want to find Jen to get her to take me home -- we're in the middle of nowhere after all -- but I don't know exactly what room she's in, and I sense something very bad will happen to me if I disturb people's sessions. I bang on a door and an unidentified woman hisses at me. I decide to just bail on my own. I make an announcement -- "S's friend, Jen, Serenity, whoever you are, I'm leaving," -- and bolt out the door. I think to myself, "I hope Uber has service this far out."
Outside the dome there is a checkout line. Retreat participants are expected to be debriefed before they leave. The line is hundreds of people deep, so I ignore it and walk toward the gates of the compound. (Somehow it's much more secure getting out than it was coming in.) Some guy grabs me forcefully by the wrist and tells me angrily to go to the end of the line. He's gaunt and weak, and I break his grip easily. I'm ready to beat his ass Brad-Pitt-at-Sphan-Ranch style*, but there's no need, and I plow ahead to the front of the line. The woman organizing the debriefings blocks the exit with some of the other cult members, and, realizing I can't fight them all, I veer to the side and scale a chain-link fence.
*Mild spoiler if you haven't yet seen Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.
On the other side, I'm back in the grotto alone. I'm free from the cult, but I'm still stuck. I'm now in classical anxiety dream mode. I'm having trouble moving, and when I do move, I don't get anywhere. I thrash through hedges and clumsily plod down pathways but always end up in the same place I started. There is a sense of doom closing in on me, and then... I wake up. It's a very unsatisfying resolution. I consider for a split-second trying to go back to sleep to finish my dream, before realizing how ridiculous that is. It's over. The story is done. That's the nature of dreams: They all end with the same deus ex machina.
Plus, I couldn't go back to sleep even if I wanted to. In real life, Lil' S2 is in a standoff with S, and he's screeching at her -- I mean absolutely wailing. He's at a stage in his life where he can (and should be) more independent than he is. He doesn't need us to do everything for him anymore. He can get dressed on his own; he can brush his own teeth; he can put his own shoes and socks on, etc. He just doesn't ever want to do any of these things. He wants S or me to do them for him. Often he doesn't even want to walk from one room to the next; he insists we carry him. It's all gotten to be too much for S and me. Sometimes we have to indulge him, because we can't spend a half-hour arguing with him, but we've got to start laying down the law whenever possible. So, although I was quite annoyed that I couldn't sleep in on my one sleep-in day of the week (and that my dream was interrupted), I am glad that S was holding the line. It's short-term pain, for long-term peace... hopefully.
Until next time...
["No one wants to hear, What you dreamt about unless you dreamt about them."]
This morning's dream started with S calling me on my cell phone and asking me if I would go to a "mindfulness retreat" with her friend Jen (who exists only in this dream; she's not a real person). There was a reason why -- S was going to go and couldn't or something like that -- but I can't remember it exactly now. Despite having never before met Jen, I agree to accompany her. In real life, last night, S told me of a woman she used to know who now teaches people some bullshit called Reiki, so, although I wasn't thinking of this actively in my dream, I suspect it was the implicit source of this narrative. If not, it's an uncanny coincidence.
Back to the dream: I'm in a car, on the way to the retreat, with Jen, who strikes me as a nice, normal person. She's one of those petite, energetic women, dressed casually in a v-neck t-shirt and jeans. She's driving a red convertible; I'm in the passenger's seat. We're driving through Tacoma, Washington, at night, crossing the Narrows Bridge into a heavily wooded area near Gig Harbor. We're making small talk; she's touting the retreat. She's apparently a regular at it. We drive deep into the forest on a rural road, before coming to a massive, wooden geodesic dome.
"This is it," she says. "You're really gonna like this."
We get out of the car and the grounds are beautiful. We're in an amazingly lush grotto with gorgeous swimming pools. The lights are turned down low, and we are greeted by the organizers of the retreat. Everybody seems to know each other and know Jen, and they're speaking with a tone and a lingo that signals they're the insiders, and I'm the outsider. The men look like hippies -- parodies of hippies, really; they're dirty and shirtless, with long hair and brown teeth -- but the women are immaculately put-together. They are all beautiful. Their hair is intricately coiffed; they have on glittery eye makeup; and they're clad in some sort of all-white wrap.
"Serenity, welcome," they say to Jen, "I see you brought a friend." I can't tell if they think this is a good thing or a bad thing. They're robotically pleasant. Jen smiles at them, heads inside the dome, and half-motions me to come with her. Charily, I do. I have that Eyes Wide Shut feeling: I'm fairly certain whatever awaits won't be good for me, but I'm too intrigued to step off the path that has been laid before me.
Inside, there is a long hallway with a common area at the end, where people are mingling. There are dozens of tiny rooms off the hallway; most of their doors are shut, but a few of them are ajar. I peek in and see old-fashioned self-flagellation devices -- a belt with spikes on the inside*, a cilice or hairshirt, and a cat o' nine tails. It creeps me out, and I want to leave, but I can't. It's like I'm in an old arcade game, and I can only move in one direction: further down the hall.
*The great mathematician Blaise Pascal used to wear a belt like this, and he would tighten it a notch each time he thought an impure thought.
In the common area, Jen seems to know everybody again. She's approached by a few folks who ask her if she's ready for a "session." She says she is and goes off into a room, without acknowledging me at all. I'm left to stand there and look around. People are grouping off and going into private rooms, and the crowd is shrinking. I'm hoping nobody approaches me, but I also don't want to be left alone.
Eventually, a guy comes up to me and starts a conversation. He's tall, with a mane of wavy brown hair, and he's shirtless. He's simultaneously lanky and chubby -- like, his frame is slender, but he has a flabby belly and chest. There's an episode of Broad City in which the guy who plays Badger in Breaking Bad has a cameo, and you see him with his shirt off, and that's what this guy looks like. That's a deep cut, I know, but it's what I thought in my dream.
"Would you like to join me in a session?" he asks.
"What do you do in a session?" I respond.
"That's the wrong question."
"What's the right question?"
"Why are you here?"
"I just came with Jen. She's friends with my wife."
"Ah, Serenity. Yes, she's a sorceress of mindfulness. But, I'm interested in you. Again, I make the proposition: Would you join me in a session?"
"I don't think so. I'm good."
"No! You are not good! Nobody is good! But, we here know we are not good, and that, paradoxically, makes us good."
"Kinda Socratic."
"I disagree. You are not as smart as you think you are. But, you have potential, and I would very much like for you to join me in a session."
"It's not going to happen."
"Fine. But, I will find you on Grindr later."
"I'm not on Grindr."
"Ha-ha-ha! Sure, dude, sure."
He vanishes from sight like people can do in dreams, and now I'm alone. I realize I've gotten myself into some sort weird (masochistic? sex?) cult, and I need to get out fast. I want to find Jen to get her to take me home -- we're in the middle of nowhere after all -- but I don't know exactly what room she's in, and I sense something very bad will happen to me if I disturb people's sessions. I bang on a door and an unidentified woman hisses at me. I decide to just bail on my own. I make an announcement -- "S's friend, Jen, Serenity, whoever you are, I'm leaving," -- and bolt out the door. I think to myself, "I hope Uber has service this far out."
Outside the dome there is a checkout line. Retreat participants are expected to be debriefed before they leave. The line is hundreds of people deep, so I ignore it and walk toward the gates of the compound. (Somehow it's much more secure getting out than it was coming in.) Some guy grabs me forcefully by the wrist and tells me angrily to go to the end of the line. He's gaunt and weak, and I break his grip easily. I'm ready to beat his ass Brad-Pitt-at-Sphan-Ranch style*, but there's no need, and I plow ahead to the front of the line. The woman organizing the debriefings blocks the exit with some of the other cult members, and, realizing I can't fight them all, I veer to the side and scale a chain-link fence.
*Mild spoiler if you haven't yet seen Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.
On the other side, I'm back in the grotto alone. I'm free from the cult, but I'm still stuck. I'm now in classical anxiety dream mode. I'm having trouble moving, and when I do move, I don't get anywhere. I thrash through hedges and clumsily plod down pathways but always end up in the same place I started. There is a sense of doom closing in on me, and then... I wake up. It's a very unsatisfying resolution. I consider for a split-second trying to go back to sleep to finish my dream, before realizing how ridiculous that is. It's over. The story is done. That's the nature of dreams: They all end with the same deus ex machina.
Plus, I couldn't go back to sleep even if I wanted to. In real life, Lil' S2 is in a standoff with S, and he's screeching at her -- I mean absolutely wailing. He's at a stage in his life where he can (and should be) more independent than he is. He doesn't need us to do everything for him anymore. He can get dressed on his own; he can brush his own teeth; he can put his own shoes and socks on, etc. He just doesn't ever want to do any of these things. He wants S or me to do them for him. Often he doesn't even want to walk from one room to the next; he insists we carry him. It's all gotten to be too much for S and me. Sometimes we have to indulge him, because we can't spend a half-hour arguing with him, but we've got to start laying down the law whenever possible. So, although I was quite annoyed that I couldn't sleep in on my one sleep-in day of the week (and that my dream was interrupted), I am glad that S was holding the line. It's short-term pain, for long-term peace... hopefully.
Until next time...
