The Dream Where I Live:

Memory Patterns, Maps, and Dead Ends.

Introduction

Dreams are real. As real as waking life. In both we gather memories of family, friends, and places. In both, we take journeys, get lost, and sometimes reach home. But not the home we lived in; more a memory of home, whether actually lived in real life or dream life. Still, it is home. Today I'd like to discuss a history of my dream life, exclusive to the world that a lifetime of dream has built from my waking life, for, after all my years as an active dreamer, I cannot question what is real or not anymore, nor do I wish to make such distinctions. We're here to describe simply this coalescense of memories as best I can.


The Stairs

Early in my teens the strongest dream memory I have is an outdoor stairwell with six flights of steps and five landings. It is made of concrete. The handrails are brass. At the top of the stairs are two old-fashion lamp-posts lit by wick and oil, their smoke cutting through the night’s mist. In the dream, I am curious as to where it leads, as I seem to remember a water fountain where the steps begin, the fountain has become the base of the stairs. Most of the time, I climb and climb the steps and cannot reach the top till my frustration shifts the dream in a new direction. When I do reach the top, I see a dark shadowy mansion about forty or so yards straightaway. There’s a single dim porch-light and a downstairs window with yellow curtains aglow from a light source inside the home. If I reach the porch, I open the door and enter. This triggers another dream.


The Mansion

Inside the house, there are many more staircases leading to a second floor. In the intimate living room, there are strangers smoking marijuana from pipes and sipping red wine. I am neither welcomed nor ignored. I’m simply there. I seat myself and look around the room. A fireplace, a round ornate coffee table, where jars of loose dry leaves, pungent buds, and resin covered flakes sit before the smokers. They are talking, but I don’t understand them. Suddenly, I want to leave, but I can’t remember where I live. I try to recall what street was at the bottom of the steps outside. Usually, when I go outside, the steps are gone, and there’s a huge dead tree in front of the mansion. Sometimes it is day time outside and sometimes it is night. If day, I walk toward the sun, eastward; if night, I force myself to wake.


The Movie Theatre

Sometimes when I reach the stairwell, I ignore it and keep on walking, because I remember the Mall is a few minutes away. Usually the Mall is empty, neither closed nor abandoned, just void of people. But the movie theatre is always open. I enter the front door and I’m in the theatre, not the lobby or the ticket office, but the actual seating area. I sit and the movie begins. It’s just nonsense, not even a movie, just various lights going on and off. I look around for other people, but I’m alone, so I have no other opinion to figure out if this is the movie or some type of play. I remember this is a multiplex and try a different theatre. Same thing. Empty. Same movie/play. I leave again. Sometimes the consession stand is open but selling oddities like empty candy boxes or half-eaten ice cream bars. I start to get scared. I leave the theatre, and I’m in the parking lot.


The Parking Lot

The parking structure is five stories. You can take the staircase to your floor or you can walk up the driving ramps until you find your car. But that’s the problem. I can never find my car. I remember driving there. It was a vehicle with no safety belts, roomy seats, clean but old smelling, like an antique car from the 50s, a Mercury. Though I remember the car, I can’t find it on any parking level. I then search the outside parking in front of the theatre, which is now dark, save for the marquee that is brightly lit with confusing movie titles. Once I give up on the search for my car, I walk to the closest street and look for a bus stop.


The Bus

Although it is night time, the bus is always full. I ask if the bus goes to Los Angeles. The driver nods yes. I usually stand near the front so I can some landmark that I recognize. Locating myself with the bus stopping so often makes it difficult. Most of the time, the bus will reach the end of the line, and the driver will order everyone off. He will then turn off the inside lights and remained parked there. I wonder if I should wait for the bus to start and reboard. I never do. I walk along the street with the most lights. As I walk, I try to remember where I live. This pattern is the usual, but the bus also takes me to Las Vegas, to an underground bus station, and to an empty university. When we go to these unusual places, I never get off the bus. I hide in the back so the driver can’t kick me off. Then I go to sleep till the bus ride resumes and more people get on. I can then blend in with the new crowd and look for familiar landmarks once more.


The Hotel

The most common landmark is liquor store, where I get off the bus. I live in one of the rooms atop the store. To the right of the store entrance is a staircase leading up. At the top, there’s room to the right and to the left. I never remember which is my room. I don’t have a key. I simply chose a door and enter. It is always my room. It is empty of furnishing save for a single bed by the window. The rest of the room is empty. I look out the window. I will see one of three things: A parade going by, a mountain-range covered with snow, or two gangs exchanging gunfire like in a Hollywood Western. Only if there are mountains do I venture downstairs to buy a six-pack of beer at the liquor store. Entering the store, there are old comic books and adult magazines on a turnstile rack. I flip through the comics and find some rare ones. By the time I reach the counter to pay for them, they turn into cheap kiddie comics. I return them to the rack. Then the store is empty except for a small fridge with some cheap beer I’ve never heard of. I leave the store without buying anything. Outside the street is covered with snow and the mountains are right across the street. I remember that if I climb that mountain, there is a shortcut to a park on the other side, where there is no snow. If my room has not disappeared, I climb the mountain; if my room is still there, I crawl into bed and shut my eyes till the waking world calls me.