Many people with many more degrees and many more star charts on their walls than I have undertaken the abstract subject of dreams. Look, let me say this right up front - I don't put much stock in dream interpretation. Sure, there are easy bridges to make such as, if you had a dream about eating chocolate pudding from the head of Sherlock Holmes, you are obsessed with death. Dreamt about balancing a marshmallow deck chair on the tip of your nose? Death. Had a dream about snapping into a cyanide capsule as you kick away the ladder and swing in a noose while Satan pumps round after round of armor-piercing bullets into your swinging body? Well, actually, that's not about death, it's about sexual anxiety in group situations, but more on that another time.
When I was a kid, I was terrorized by nightmares. It wasn't even funny. It was vivid, raw and disturbing. They were kinds of dreams that would make Norman Bates wake up and cry "Mommy!" Then, poof! They were gone. No more monsters chasing me, no more scary dreams, not even an off-camera grunt. Almost overnight, I became immune to all of it. Dreams starting taking on more of an idyllic tilt. Of course, as I grew older, reveries of scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals, morphing into all-powerful beasts, and discovering large sacks of money were replaced with dreams of naked girls, opulent homes, and large sacks of money. Even more so, they constituted the backbone of my daydreams, but that's another story for another audience.
Now, I'm going to back up and tell you that I lied. I DO still have dreams with horrific monsters in them, but, I know it's only a dream, so I simply make myself bigger than the monster and knock the snot out of them. No more running down that long hallway that stretches farther with each step and no more dead-legging where I can't run anymore (that's only in real life). Now? Well, nowadays I can glide along like I'm skating on a thick crust of tiramisu, lift off the ground as easily as a birthday balloon, and change locations more quickly than a fast-forwarded version of a montage of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" episodes. Dreams of falling have been replaced with dreams of gliding down softly and nonchalantly before cruising into my next adventure. What can I say - I'm at peace with my dreams.
Now, if you are a so-called normal person, you've had the naked dream, or at least the underwear dream. Those are the dreams where you are in a public setting either bare-ass naked or in your underwear, and you're terrified. Me? Not a chance. Hey, I'm no bronze Adonis, nor am I a reincarnation of John Holmes, but in my dreams, I'm strutting like Tony Manero in the opening credits of Saturday Night Fever, with my junk out there catching the breeze. Some of you have even had the toilet dream. What's the toilet dream? Glad you asked. It's the dream where you are sitting (usually naked) on the toilet, and it ain't a result of drinking too much water, if you catch my drift. The thing is, you're doing it in such private confines as a busy train station, the mezzanine of baseball stadium between innings, or by the cash registers of Macy's on Black Friday. This can really test your mettle, and it's not considered a weakness to wake up to re-calibrate yourself and fall back asleep into another dream. With any luck, you'll forget about it by the time you wake up.
I've also found myself experiencing repeats in my dreams. Sometimes a dream will get under way and I'll think to myself, "Oh, I know how this one goes." Then I'll kick back and enjoy it, shouting at the "screen" to "not go in there!" or, "oh, yeah, this is where that chick gets naked" - I love those dreams most of all. I do dream in color, and some jokes that I remember from my dreams are actually funny when I repeat them to myself after I'm awake, so I wonder on which side of the line of consciousness I belong. Personally, I think I belong on the side of the gorgeous naked girl dream that repeats over and over and over again. No need telling me what THAT dream means...
Last I heard, it was about death.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Brothers in Arms - and Fists
I was a pretty lousy brother when I was growing up. Not that local municipalities are dueling at dawn for the right to erect a statue of me as a testament to my excellence at being a brother in my adult years, but when I think back to those days, I realize that, as far as brothers go, Satan himself was probably saying, "Wow, what a lousy kid. Make sure he goes to heaven."
My older brother was slightly less than two years older than me, and if my math is correct, he still is. Dave was a bit of a roughneck, who would go tear-assing through the neighborhood at top speed, without any regard for his safety, and generally came home with the cuts, bruises, and groundings to prove it. Me? I was a shy, skinny kid, who preferred playing with my dinosaurs, reading dictionaries, and eating spiders in the backyard. There was always an uneasy truce between us. Dave was bold and bombastic while I was the sneaky, calculating one. Many a time when something was missing, broken, or on fire, it was Dave who received the punishment, while I would shove my hands into my pockets and whistle lightly as I coasted out of the room. But, you don't look into the mouth of the lion without being mauled once in a while. When my folks were not around, Dave, who was always handy with his fists, would bombard me with a barrage of haymakers until I was a tenderized and soft lump of meat - ready for the grill. On some occasions, I would do something to upset Dave (which didn't take a lot in those days), while we played on the side of the house. Before I knew it, he was launching himself at me, fists drawn back and ready to explode. I knew my window of opportunity was short, so I would let fly a diamond-cracking scream so loud that the dogs in the neighborhood would break into a cacophonous chorus of pain and anguish, followed by the appearance of my mother or father (or both) at the side door to grab Dave in mid-flight and give him a "lesson" on why he shouldn't hit his brother. I had this down to an art form, which only made Dave madder. I could have lived out the rest of my pre-adolescent years in this fashion if not for one mistake.
I went to the well one time too many.
Same scenario: playing baseball or football on the side of the house, Dave getting mad at me for something I may or may not have done, and then, with the roar of a hurricane of pissed-off tigers, he was on top of me, giving me a near-biblical beating. I yelled for my parents while fending off the blows, but, nobody came! I yelled again, and through the blur of fists, saw both my mother and father standing there, just watching me getting smashed like a beer can at a Sturgis bike rally. They figured it was time that I took my beating. I have to admit, they were right.
Oh, the thumpings continued, but with less frequency, if not less ferocity. I finally had enough. I could understand if I was the one who started the trouble - which was most of the time - but when Dave initiated it because I happened to score a touchdown on him or netted a goal against his team, I'd had enough. I'll never forget it. We actually duked it out in our driveway. It wasn't planned, it just manifested itself out of some strange cosmic "understanding" that it had to happen some day and today was that day. Dave was both fast and strong. I was fast and agile. He landed a few punches that sent me reeling, but I wasn't going to cry out this time. I turned it into anger and threw a couple of roundhouses that hit the mark. I think this surprised Dave the most - the fact I was even fighting back. Instead of receiving the grudging respect I thought my wild punches had earned me, I was hammered with a flurry of fists so fast that gravity itself started to bend in towards the oil spot on the driveway - but I wouldn't go down. There were these two skinny metal poles that held up the roof of the driveway, and I was always putting them between Dave and me, so he couldn't take a direct charge. Then, when neither he or I was expecting it, I closed my eyes, and threw a punch so hard that it rocked the heavens. God himself later told me that he had to tell the younger angels that "the humans are bowling downstairs." I connected with some part of Dave's face. I couldn't be sure if it was his nose or his mouth, but I saw blood - and blood always meant one thing to brothers who wanted to beat each other up - the fight was over. Why? Well, because while you wanted to pound your older or younger brother into cube steak, you didn't really want to HURT him. Unless you've had typical sibling fights at that age, you might not know what I'm talking about.
But, something changed that day. The fights stopped. It's not because Dave was afraid of me now - far from it. He knew that I would fight back and there would be no more free lunch, no matter how terrified I was at age 10 of being pummeled by him again. Yet, I never felt threatened by him anymore. We could disagree, argue, even yell at each other and it would never come to fisticuffs again. I had learned a lot from Dave. I became a good defensive fighter and wound up with excellent wrestling skills (though I never went out for any teams), but I earned his respect, and when you are a pre-adolescent with an older brother, all you want is his respect and acceptance. Sometimes, I've wondered if he was waiting for me to punch him all along and then when I did, he was giving me the gift that I had to earn myself. No one was going to earn it for me, and maybe, just maybe, he was glad to have a bloody nose or lip from his little brother.
Today, I have a very good relationship with Dave. It's been through some difficult times, don't get me wrong, but the love and respect we have for each other now is worth all the effort that brought us to where we are today.
Dave, thanks for making me stand up like a man, even when I was still a boy, and teaching me a lesson even you didn't know you were teaching.
But, you have to admit, that was one heck of a punch.
My older brother was slightly less than two years older than me, and if my math is correct, he still is. Dave was a bit of a roughneck, who would go tear-assing through the neighborhood at top speed, without any regard for his safety, and generally came home with the cuts, bruises, and groundings to prove it. Me? I was a shy, skinny kid, who preferred playing with my dinosaurs, reading dictionaries, and eating spiders in the backyard. There was always an uneasy truce between us. Dave was bold and bombastic while I was the sneaky, calculating one. Many a time when something was missing, broken, or on fire, it was Dave who received the punishment, while I would shove my hands into my pockets and whistle lightly as I coasted out of the room. But, you don't look into the mouth of the lion without being mauled once in a while. When my folks were not around, Dave, who was always handy with his fists, would bombard me with a barrage of haymakers until I was a tenderized and soft lump of meat - ready for the grill. On some occasions, I would do something to upset Dave (which didn't take a lot in those days), while we played on the side of the house. Before I knew it, he was launching himself at me, fists drawn back and ready to explode. I knew my window of opportunity was short, so I would let fly a diamond-cracking scream so loud that the dogs in the neighborhood would break into a cacophonous chorus of pain and anguish, followed by the appearance of my mother or father (or both) at the side door to grab Dave in mid-flight and give him a "lesson" on why he shouldn't hit his brother. I had this down to an art form, which only made Dave madder. I could have lived out the rest of my pre-adolescent years in this fashion if not for one mistake.
I went to the well one time too many.
Same scenario: playing baseball or football on the side of the house, Dave getting mad at me for something I may or may not have done, and then, with the roar of a hurricane of pissed-off tigers, he was on top of me, giving me a near-biblical beating. I yelled for my parents while fending off the blows, but, nobody came! I yelled again, and through the blur of fists, saw both my mother and father standing there, just watching me getting smashed like a beer can at a Sturgis bike rally. They figured it was time that I took my beating. I have to admit, they were right.
Oh, the thumpings continued, but with less frequency, if not less ferocity. I finally had enough. I could understand if I was the one who started the trouble - which was most of the time - but when Dave initiated it because I happened to score a touchdown on him or netted a goal against his team, I'd had enough. I'll never forget it. We actually duked it out in our driveway. It wasn't planned, it just manifested itself out of some strange cosmic "understanding" that it had to happen some day and today was that day. Dave was both fast and strong. I was fast and agile. He landed a few punches that sent me reeling, but I wasn't going to cry out this time. I turned it into anger and threw a couple of roundhouses that hit the mark. I think this surprised Dave the most - the fact I was even fighting back. Instead of receiving the grudging respect I thought my wild punches had earned me, I was hammered with a flurry of fists so fast that gravity itself started to bend in towards the oil spot on the driveway - but I wouldn't go down. There were these two skinny metal poles that held up the roof of the driveway, and I was always putting them between Dave and me, so he couldn't take a direct charge. Then, when neither he or I was expecting it, I closed my eyes, and threw a punch so hard that it rocked the heavens. God himself later told me that he had to tell the younger angels that "the humans are bowling downstairs." I connected with some part of Dave's face. I couldn't be sure if it was his nose or his mouth, but I saw blood - and blood always meant one thing to brothers who wanted to beat each other up - the fight was over. Why? Well, because while you wanted to pound your older or younger brother into cube steak, you didn't really want to HURT him. Unless you've had typical sibling fights at that age, you might not know what I'm talking about.
But, something changed that day. The fights stopped. It's not because Dave was afraid of me now - far from it. He knew that I would fight back and there would be no more free lunch, no matter how terrified I was at age 10 of being pummeled by him again. Yet, I never felt threatened by him anymore. We could disagree, argue, even yell at each other and it would never come to fisticuffs again. I had learned a lot from Dave. I became a good defensive fighter and wound up with excellent wrestling skills (though I never went out for any teams), but I earned his respect, and when you are a pre-adolescent with an older brother, all you want is his respect and acceptance. Sometimes, I've wondered if he was waiting for me to punch him all along and then when I did, he was giving me the gift that I had to earn myself. No one was going to earn it for me, and maybe, just maybe, he was glad to have a bloody nose or lip from his little brother.
Today, I have a very good relationship with Dave. It's been through some difficult times, don't get me wrong, but the love and respect we have for each other now is worth all the effort that brought us to where we are today.
Dave, thanks for making me stand up like a man, even when I was still a boy, and teaching me a lesson even you didn't know you were teaching.
But, you have to admit, that was one heck of a punch.
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