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November 25, 2007
How much of what we are is what we believe others think us to be?
It may be late for allergy season, but don't tell my allergies that. Leaf dust is one thing that really gets them going; and guess what I've been doing this weekend?
A partial remedy is to take about half (at most; or one-fourth) the package-recommended dosage of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride, because the full dose is not sustainable over time without serious side effects, but the smaller amount keeps the sinus and ear pressure somewhat under control.
One side effect of even small doses of "Sudafed" is that it makes me a very light sleeper. I therefore spend much more time in REM sleep, and have vivid dreams that I can remember better than usual. I can even sometimes wake up, look at the clock, and slip back into the same dream I was having. That's unheard of (for me). (Another side effect is that my body tries to make up on lost deep sleep in the morning, which makes me sleep late, but I digress.)
Last night's main dream involved a music festival—sort of like Bonnaroo, but smaller, with maybe 15,000 dirty hippies instead of 80,000. I was there with two other guys (loosely based on real-life characters). The storyline centered not on the music, but on finding the best camping spot. My two companions were all about camping close to a main walkway, right near the center of everything. I don't remember all of their reasons, but I know one of them had to do with "babes."
I set up with them that night, but it was noisy, and there were too many visitors. The next day, I decided to look for my own spot. (My ideals concerning camping were formed pretty early in life, but were truly met on a solo trip into Olympic National Park in late September, seven years ago. I saw not a single human being for three days.)
The festival grounds were set at the foot of some rather impressive mountains, the lower flanks of which were covered mostly with just grass. Surely, I thought, I can just hike up a little bit, and find a secluded spot that's still within walking distance of the music venues, but that I can retreat to at the end of the day. I started up the hillside, through the row of vendors selling bead jewelry and corn dogs, and past what looked like a Buddhist monastery (hey, it's a dream), on the steps of which some kids were playing (cards? jacks?) and affectionately bragging back and forth about something. I paid them little attention, as I had a tent to set up before dark.
I needed to find a fairly level spot, so I turned to my right and followed the swell of land toward where it looked like it would flatten a little. I was almost there, when suddenly I realized that the spot I had picked from a distance was nestled right in between a church and that church's picnic grounds, and that there was, in fact, a potluck gathering taking place. People were seated at rustic picnic tables and eating, I don't know, potato salad and macaroni salad and such.
One of them spoke to me. He had dark hair and a smooth baritone voice, and acted like a pack leader of some kind. It was clear what his assumptions were when he said something about me being a little off course in terms of finding my concert. Several picnic-goers snickered, and I could tell that their minds had me wandering off, lost in a drug-induced haze, from the festival down below.
I started to explain that no, I was in fact sober, and was merely looking for a calmer camping spot away from the party types; but the strangest thing happened. I could not utter a word, and it was because my mind was suddenly awash in the listlessness and confusion of a pot-tinged acid trip. The force of the small church crowd's assumptions about me had actually altered my state of being, and I had become exactly what they thought me to be.
I turned away and started trudging back down toward the festival grounds. I'll just go sleep in the f---ing car, I thought. On my way to the parking lot, I passed a small grandstand filled with twentysomethings who eagerly awaited some favorite act. One of them—I'm sure my travel companions would have considered her a "babe"—sneered in some very specific detail about how I looked without a shirt on. I ignored her, and kept walking.
Then I woke up.
Dreamlog | By joe lance | 09:55 AM