You Must Be Dreamin'

Crazy, right, how we as a species call it quits each night to recharge our batteries.  How, for eight hours, more or less, we submissively assume the horizontal position (unless you've an adjustable bed with sleep numbers contorting you into a pretzel) in order to go out and give it the ol' college try again the very next day.  And when we do reach slumberland it's never without incident. Stuff happens.  Our brains, clearly not on the same page, refuse to follow marching orders, opting instead to go AWOL with their own private rendition of movie night.  Every night.  And there we are, eyes closed, naively thinking we can finally cop a brief respite from the daily spasm that is life, when our gray matter decides otherwise, thrusting us into our own involuntary action-adventure flick, willy-nilly, one scene after another like Tom Cruise on speed with a handful of Red Bulls thrown in for effect... Like I said, crazy.

Here's a scenario: you're at a ski lodge, sitting in a comfy sofa, right leg elevated, in a cast, no doubt the result of a snowboarding accident, everyone enjoying cocktails as you dominate the conversation with an hilarious story about overdue library books and a billy goat that eats everything in sight.  The little yarn is landing its share of guffaws and chortles, even an out-and-out spit-take from the tipsy dental hygienist getting a bit too touchy-feely with her boss, the married orthodontist.  You part while on top, excusing yourself to go to the restroom, striding confidently 'cause, yeah, your right leg is seemingly fine now. You open the door to find yourself unexpectedly on stage being judged by formally dressed men and women yelling "Show us what you got!" and you're beyond speechless, the flop sweat flowing, having no idea what you've got or how to show it. Doesn't matter, a split second later and you're in a playground being walloped by a grade-school bully, causing you to sit up in bed. What the hell?!  

Dreams, man, they're so off the wall.  Deranged, really. And yet, while they're goin' on, this pastiche of rambling non sequiturs seem as logical as taking the dog for a walk or attending a play.  Or working undercover in a hat factory, gathering intelligence on whether cheaper synthetic blends are furtively being pawned off as felt to unsuspecting fedora consumers (too random?). Bottom line: whoever coined the term "brain fart" got it 100% right.  It's all poppycock. Balderdash with a side order of gibberish. Blather with equal parts twaddle... Humbug, really.  And it's not just at night that we have to deal with the Sandman's duplicity; the fallout from a particularly unsettling dream sequence can last throughout the waking day causing us to second guess what we thought was reality, making us wonder if all this is just a dream.  Some days it'd make perfect sense.

So here's the kicker: You'd think Oneirology, the study of dreams, that began in the nineteenth century and then gained momentum in 1952 with the discovery of REM (rapid eye movement) sleep cycles, would have some real answers all these years later.  Yeah... no. Oh sure, they'll tell you we dream, on an average, two hours a night and theorize that they help process emotions, consolidate memory and creativity but nothing's etched in stone (or even really cheap plastic) as to the actual purpose of these night visitors.  And what they mean seems to be up for grabs: teeth falling out may indicate insecurity (or maybe consider flossing once in a while); dreaming you're naked in public could mean you're harboring underlying feelings of vulnerability (or you're just a craven exhibitionist).  And if you subscribe to Freud, just about everything is about sex (dude, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, a tunnel a tunnel). 

And while we're at it, how frustrating is it when you wake up knowing you've just come out of a crazy scenario and you draw a blank, can't remember a thing?  Not a clue.  Hell, you could've been on the verge of being eaten by a lion or about to receive the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for discovering something really cool physiologically (or medicinally) only to realize it's faded away into the ether never to return... Unless, by chance, in the midst of a typical day, your memory's unexpectedly revoked--say by your Thursday night poker game-- as in when someone calls your bluff, laying down their cards, demanding you "Show us what you got!"  And suddenly it's back, the tied tongue and flop sweat, your head on a swivel, your eyes anxiously looking about, expecting that playground bully to appear and wallop you any second.