Ghosts

(Source)

It's a misty, early morning. I'm sitting, alone, at a small table which itself sits on the veranda of a very large old house. Though I haven't explored the place fully, I know that the veranda wraps around the entire house. Though I don't recall having gone inside, I somehow know that the house is large, very large and has many comfortable and spacious rooms. One might call it a palace if it wasn't for the very down home feel of the place.

The house sits beside a lake, at least I think it's a lake as I can dimly perceive the other side. Whether that dimness is because of the mist or the size of this body of water, I don't know.

I'm wearing a light jacket, to ward off the morning's chill, and I'm enjoying a cup of coffee, gazing out at the lake, which is calm, nearly as still as a mill pond. I can hear the water lapping at the shoreline, but that is the only sound I hear.

Suddenly there is this fellow standing beside me, wearing running kit and from the look of him, just back from a brisk run, he's sweating and puffing slightly. Somehow I sense that I know this man, but I've never met him. With a grin and a nod, he's off again, jogging down the veranda then off into the mist.

I awaken with a palpable sense of loss. I've glimpsed something profound and I don't fully understand what it is I think I've experienced. I know it's a dream, yet, somehow not a dream. I knew that man though I'd never met him in real life. It was the sense of loss though that stayed with me the rest of the day.

It lingers still.

I dream a lot. Every night? I don't know. There are nights when my sleep is so fitful that come morning, I don't know if I slept, dreamt of sleep, or simply tossed and turned in a semi-conscious state most of the night. When I mention this to The Missus Herself, she usually remarks that "for a guy who didn't sleep at all, you sure snored a lot."

(As an aside, she once recorded my snoring, thinking, I guess, to show me just how annoying it was. I thought it sounded rhythmic and soothing, almost like white noise. Yes, she told me that I was, most certainly, an idiot. I cannot confirm, nor deny, that statement. Seems there might be enough evidence there to support her contention. But I digress.)

Are my dreams in color? Or in black and white? Truthfully I don't know. Some seem vivid and perhaps in color. Others are misty and somewhat unclear. Surreal describes it nicely. Or as Patton put it, "as through a glass, and darkly..."

When I was young I had dreams about falling. Very vivid and absolutely terrifying. Then I learned to fly. One night, when I had fallen off a cliff in a dream (how the heck did I get up there?) I took control. Soon I was soaring through the air, down valleys, up and over hills. I could fly.

I kind of miss those dreams. (I read somewhere that dreaming about falling is something that happens when you are still growing. I'm not growing anymore, but I am expanding. Which is something I need to get under control before I create my own gravitational field...)

I have dreamt of war. Extreme violence where I have been so enraged that I would kill an enemy over and over again. Always a faceless foe, never someone I could recognize as even being human. How did I know it was war and not something else? Well, artillery was involved. In the near distance, didn't sound like thunder, sounded like cannon. (I've heard both, I know the difference.)

When I would relate those dreams of violence to The Missus Herself, she asked me if there was blood in the dream. Seems that in Korea, a dream involving violence with blood means one thing, without blood another. Oddly enough the former is considered better than the latter. No, I don't know why. Neither did she. (It's like asking why a black cat crossing one's path is bad luck. Or going under a ladder, or breaking a mirror. Superstition? Folk wisdom? I don't know.)

What are dreams, really? I know what some have said, perhaps they are just a method the subconscious uses to organize random bits of memory so that they can be categorized, and perhaps discarded. Then there is Freud's interpretation -

Freud (1900) considered dreams to be the royal road to the unconscious as it is in dreams that the ego's defenses are lowered so that some of the repressed material comes through to awareness, albeit in distorted form. Dreams perform important functions for the unconscious mind and serve as valuable clues to how the unconscious mind operates. (Source)

I get the feeling that my "royal road" is potholed, semi-paved, and in need of some repair.

I know who it was I met on that veranda, some of you know too. It's not the first time I've encountered this fellow in dreams. He knows something that he's not telling.

It's something good, that much I know.

While writing this post I had a memory pop into my head. Involves learning to fly, sort of.

We'd just had a pleasant lunch in Virginia Beach, at Chick's, a place the Florida Flyer knows well. It was a beautiful day, the food was great, the company better. The Missus Herself, The WSO, The WSO's best friend, and (of course) Your Humble Scribe.

On the way back to Chez LUSH, this song came on the radio. Oddly enough, these guys were on Letterman that very same night. This song evokes some very good memories. Very good indeed. And Dave Grohl bears a faint resemblance to the guy in the dream.

I wonder what it all means.