Dreams are probably one of my favorite things in the world. And, boy, have I had some doozies.
For example, it/s now 1 o/ clock Monday, and I just woke up from one of the strangest dreams I/ve had of late. I was sitting at a banquet table with various friends of mine, and we were eating dinner and cracking jokes. At a table a short distance away were all the great, dead Greek philosophers and writers, who I have so little affection for. There was Thucydides, Euripides, Antisthenes and a very fat and swarthy Epicurus. Well, they thought we were being loud; we thought they were being loud, and, for some reason, the two groups began to exchange harsh words. I recall loudly mocking Epicurus at one point. We then made fun of the ancient Greeks/ relationships with young boys and, finally, taunted them because - after all - we know just when their civilization gets clobbered.
They ended up wanting to fight us in the parking lot of wherever we were, and we gladly accepted - only to realize that the ancient Greeks were on steroids. It suffices to say that I woke up before the battle could be joined.
I think something may be wrong with me. These dreams are just a touch odd.
Another staple in my repertoire is the dream wherein I realize that I/m dreaming. These are my favorites. They don/t come along all too often or with any predictability, but when they do, it/s fantastic. When I realize I/m dreaming, I tend to be able to do anything I like. Usually that results in me flying around.
If only such were life.
Let me tell you about one of my all time favorites, though. Those of you who know me will know that I fancy myself something of a writer and have, in fact, been writing stories for some time. Those of you who know me better will know that Jack Nicholson is one of my personal heroes.
Well, once, in what can only be called a gift from Morpheus, Lord of Dreams (it/s a reference, Philistines), I had one of my most absurd dreams.
It went a little something like this: For some reason, I was at a carnival, just walking along the boardwalk. Then I met none other but Mr. Nicholson himself. He imparted some inconsequential advice to me, and, next thing I knew, we were in a restaurant discussing life. He took a long drink of whiskey and did his "Indians" thing from the film "Easy Rider." He then read one of my stories, looked at me solemnly and said (imagine the Nicholson voice) "You can do it, kid. You can be a writer!" My spirits were lifted immediately, and I was filled, in Dreamland, with a vast reserve of confidence. Nicholson then stood up, said "follow me" and dashed out on the check, knocking a table out of his way as he fled.
Dreams are truly amazing. They allow us to type into the deepest realms of our psyches, and even if they don/t make sense to us later, they do when we have them. And it/s that moment of clarity that makes it all worthwhile. I suggest to all my readers that you make time for more sleeping.
Eric Chianese is an English senior. His column appears weekly.
