1 

            “Are you going to the Dream-In?”

            My thoughts collect into a moment of soft comprehension and recognition. Someone is calling me into conversation and response is required. I am me as I turn around and look at the woman who stands at my side. Her smile is broad and highlights an honesty beaming with the light of a life well lived. Brown hair flows in tossed waves, accenting deep, dark eyes that reflect a thousand, thousand stars. A monarch butterfly sits atop her head, and at first I believe it is a barrette. I realize that it is alive when it spreads lace wings and flies away. She looks at me with anticipation, and I feel certain I should respond.

            “Uhh... Do I know you?”, I ask slowly, confused by the formation of my words, wondering why I even have to ask such a question.

            “I don’t know. Do you?” She laughs in a loud melody that I recognize instantly.

            “Judy?”

            Her laugh continues as I rush into her loving embrace. Her body is as soft and warm as I remember it. We separate, and her eyes hold mine until they fill my vision completely.

            “But this is a dream, isn’t it?” I inquire with no certainty that I’m asking the correct question. Again her laughter spills over, surrounding me with glittering light.

            “Of course it is. Where else would you expect a Dream-in to be?”

            A dream. Of course it is. I’m dreaming. The residual changes of potential dream half realized flow through me from all sides, as I begin to lose my grasp on the moment. Still, she stands there, and I focus on her. The rest of the dream disappears, leaving only the real dream that is me. Still and silent, Judy stands before me, her arms crossed. The devious grin on her face indicates that I have missed an important point.

            “Judy? That.... that really is you.” I say with a hesitant certainty.

            “Yes, it’s me. Now come on, I don’t want to miss her speak.”

            Judy grabs my arm and pulls me towards the door of the house that I grew up in. I remember the dog door we cut out for Clyde, our black Labrador. But I don’t see the red scuff I made with my skate board when I was ten. The door is a deep maroon instead of the dark brown I so vividly remember.  It’s freshly painted surface reflects my face, but it’s my face as I remember it from childhood. Judy’s hand reaches out and bangs the ornate metal knocker. I try to read my family name etched into it, but the letters appear to ebb and flow like I’m under water. The door abruptly swings open, and I feel myself being tugged into the room beyond.

            A vast plain of red and white flowers stretches before me, rolling hills that seem to taper off into an infinite sea of green. The flowers are covered with a dancing mass of multicolored butterflies, rainbows that change in the bright sunlight as they gracefully flutter from plant to plant in search of sweet nectar. A group of three-dimensional cartoon characters sitting on mahogany chairs is gathered around a campfire, discussing an important matter. A man with a swarthy complexion and dark, curly hair states what at first glance appears to be an obvious conclusion.

            “It would appear that we have all been here before.”

            A giraffe in a business suit sipping a cup of tea erupts in a haughty British accent. “Quite so. But if that is the case, then our whole notion of the real is challenged.”

            By now a whole group of people has gathered around the table to hear the oratory. I recognize Pat, from the office, and Danny Glover, my friend from High School. The others I don’t recognize, since many of them aren’t even human. A giant cat purrs across from me. A shiver runs down my spine as the animal licks its lips and seems to consider whether or not to chase me.

            A bear wearing a purple beanie with a bight green propeller on top responds in a soothing, feminine voice. “The boundaries between real and surreal have been taken seriously for far to long. They are pseudo at best. If we could only accept that we are what we dream ourselves to be, then we would no longer question the validity of the experience. We would be the dream itself.” The crowd begins to clap enthusiastically. I join in exuberantly until a tap on my shoulder attracts my attention.

            “Let’s go closer. I want to be able to see her.” I follow Judy as she dances her way through the crowd. For the first time I notice the giant stage set up at one end of the meadow. Gargantuan loudspeakers stretch up high, skyscrapers towering over our heads. As we weave our way between the groups of beings surrounding us, bits and pieces of the conversation make an impression upon my mind.

            A red triceratops on stilts: “When you talk like that, you sound like you really mean it.”

            A fat man draped in a white tuxedo with rows of tiny, blue dots. A huge sunflower grows from his black derby: “When I was a young man I could have accepted it. But now? It all seems so odd, conceptually I mean.”

            My first wife. It doesn’t look anything like her, but I know it has to be her. I just know. “If that’s the case, then dreams are really much more than just a silly thing we do when we’re asleep.”

            A place that I once visited, but never would have thought to describe as a person stands in a pool of it’s own drying blood: “It is impossible to dismiss the notion without considering it’s implications for all creatures, real and unimagined.”

            As we near the stage, a hush falls across the crowd. Everyone senses that it is time to listen, not talk. A presence fills the air, and a feeling of barely contained anticipation spreads as a tall, voluptuous figure glides from the left towards the center of the stage. She is tall and slender, her dark hair splashing onto a simple white gown covered in shiny glyphs. Flames leap from her feet as she steps up to the microphone, and her soft skin casts a faint blue glow that sparkles off of the inky depths of her coal black eyes. Her gaze shoots out across the gathered horde, taking the time to look deep into the spirit of each individual. As her eyes lock with mine, I feel questions revealed and stories told, filling me with a sense of final satisfaction.

            “Welcome. All beings within the becoming, welcome to the Dream-in.” Her deep, sonorous voice flows from the loudspeakers like molasses, filling the minds and souls of the crowd. No one dares to look away, fearing that if they do they will lose their tenuous hold on the moment.

            “I can tell you many things, of what might have been and what could still be. But ultimately the responsibility falls upon each and every one of you. You are the dreamer, so it is you who guides the dream through its various manifestations. You, and only you, make the dream into the real.

            “Just as memory is how you in the infinite now hold yourselves in relation to the past, dream is how you are related to the future. Memory itself is merely a representation of what happened in the past, not what has actually happened. In the same way, dreams are only a possibility of what could happen in the future, not what will actually happen. But the individual and collective dreams of all beings can, and does, affect the path that the present takes as it actualizes the multitude of potential futures.

            “You live in an actual present created out of the dreams of those who lived a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand years before you. Your descendants will live in your dreams. The course of history is the story of dreams achieved and missed, and when enough of you dare to dream the same dream it becomes true for all time. As conscious beings, you have the ability to shape reality with dream. This is the power granted to you, for better or for worse. You may use it to your own discretion.

            “That’s all I have to say. Good luck to you as you remember the years ahead.”

            The applause spreads immediately throughout the crowd as our teacher takes her leave of the stage. My ears are deafened by the sounds of billions and billions of cheering creatures. I can’t even hear myself, but I know that I am yelling as loudly as anyone. Finally, the noise begins to die down, and the various groups discuss possibilities amongst themselves.

            “So... Do you understand?” Judy’s playful voice rings in my ears.

            “I think so. This is a dream.”

            “Yes, it is.”

            The focus of my attention rushes towards a single point as everything and everyone around me collapses in a burst of emotional response.

            And I awake.

2

             I sit in an unseen room, a giant television filling my head with the events of the day. The announcer’s face fills my entire field of vision, his booming voice perfectly synchronized with the movement of his dry, red lips. I am hypnotized with a warm sense of freedom, security, and good will as the phrases easily flow off of his dancing tongue. His cleanly shaved chin, blue eyes, and slightly graying black hair reflect a soothing, white light.

            “..... more shelling has been reported by officials at the Pentagon’s Press Outlet. Fierce fighting began early this morning, and government troops have nearly stabilized the situation. Since the incident has been confined to the In-city, citizens in the Sub-city need not concern themselves unless they were planning travel through the affected regions. All entrance and exit from the Hillside, Sunset, and Oak Valley districts is being denied, while access to the Newood area is restricted to those with critical business. In a statement read earlier this morning, the President urges all people to remain calm and to restrict all unnecessary travel. A city-wide curfew from 7 PM until 7 AM has been instituted until further notice. Citizens are asked to fully co-operate with all peacekeepers stationed in the city until the current wave of rioting can be brought under control, and are reminded that all people are subject to search at any time during the current crisis. Anyone not complying with these orders will be detained and tried for treason.

            “This just in... Food is now available to refugees at the corner of East Seventy-sixth Street and Jefferson Ave. This is in addition to the existing feeding stations available throughout the city. For a listing of all stations near you, call 1-800-USA-CARE.

            “The weather today promises to be warm and sunny. Smog levels along the coast should be Low today, while those inland can expect levels to rise to Unhealthy by the afternoon....”

            A red light begins flashing around the corners of my vision. I know that this means that it’s time for me to go to work. I stand up, and immediately the virtual image of the newscaster in my mind disappears. I’m in my very modern, very convenient kitchen, a little dazed by the sudden transition. At first I am unsure what to do, then I remember that I have to go to work. I reach out to the doorknob, open the door, and walk through, leaving behind my bubble of safety.

            The grass glistens in the hazy morning light, and giant trees tower over my head, the beginning of a vast forest that stretches off to my left. Each tree seems to stretch into infinity, and as I look up, and up, and up, I feel myself begin to float away. A strong, persistent tap on my shoulder brings me back to the moment.

            “Hey, what are you doing?” cries out a familiar but forgotten voice, ringing through the corridors of my memory. I turn around, and there is Stan Stigowitz, an old friend I knew in High School. He looks the same as he did when I last saw him twelve years ago. Not a single strand of his jet black hair is out of place, dark waves rolling over a face of pasty, white silk. His smile bespeaks an intelligence filled with secrets.

            “I’m, uh... Going to work. That’s it.”

            “Then don’t you think you ought to take the subway?”

            “Where is it?”
            Stan points to my left. I see a large chrome bus stop, it’s polished surface shining in the sunlight. A long, sleek subway car silently sits there, as silver as the full moon, it’s perfectly formed curves and lines filling me with an impression of cold, hard reality made into steel. As I step towards it, I notice that it has begun to move at a slow but quickening pace. The doors are all open, and inside each car there is a squalid shack filled with crying, hungry children, begging me for something, anything that I can give. I reach into my pocket, but all I find is lint and dirt. I try to give this to them, but they ignore my offer. Their flesh melts from their bodies as I watch them pass, leaving only brittle bones that dissolve into dust.

            “You should get into that one, sir. It will take you to work.” A porter dressed in a bright red uniform with yellow trim points to an approaching car. At first I am afraid to jump into the moving vehicle, but as it approaches it slows, stopping as it pulls up in front of me. I look inside, and there I see a sidewalk running along the edge of a busy, four lane street. Cars emitting blue and black smoke race along, while the faceless throng of a hundred hundred people mill along the walkway, all rapidly scurrying from there to here. The cacophony pulls me forward until I land  on the sidewalk. The pavement moves slowly under my feet. I am dressed in a bright yellow suit and tie, a deep purple shirt underneath, and I am completely surrounded by other business men wearing equally bright and clashing colors. A blue man dressed in opalescence glances at his watch and sighs.

            “Damn these subways. They never get me to work on time.”

            I glance at my own wrist, but my watch has fallen off. I vaguely worry about this, as I let words form on my tongue. “What time is it?”

            “Nearly time, nearly time. Do you hear the whistle? Fate is set, and we are late again.”

            A loud, piercing shriek cuts through the air like a sharp knife. I try to run down the sidewalk, but my legs won’t cooperate. I lift my arms, and I feel my legs begin to rise , floating like feathers on the wind. I see my office ahead, a tall black monolith covered with barred windows that glisten with an eerie, red glow. The edifice stretches into infinity, a modern pyramid for the living dead. The sidewalk begins to rise, pushing me towards my cubical on the hundredth floor. I stop in front of a set of thick and heavy black bars that swing open, revealing an office with a computer on an oak desk, a metal chair beside it, beckoning me to approach. I wonder what my job actually entails, as I sit down on the hard, cold surface and begin to type at my computer.

            If things were as they appeared, then appearance would be the illusion of things as they really are. A place is merely somewhere waiting to happen. Only in the present tense is this true.

            I look at the computer screen, but the machine is obviously malfunctioning. Or maybe I don’t know how to type. Have I ever typed before? I try again, but everything is unreadable. The letters run along the screen like melted wax. I laugh nervously as an apprehensive tension builds, filling me with the urge to run. There is no way for me to do my job without my computer. And I’m certain that the deadline has already passed. On my desk a large black box with a speaker and a red button mocks me. I push the button. It feels like butter melting beneath my finger.

            “Can you come in here? I need some help.”

            A feminine voice responds. “I’ll be right there.”

            A large metal door set into the wall seems to appear out of nowhere. It slides to one side, and a beautiful woman dressed in a beaming, radiant smile enters the room. She fills me with warmth and light. Her long, dark hair perfectly compliments the chocolate brown of her eyes, telling tales of times and places seldom seen.

            “Judy?” I ask, my voice quavering, a mixture of happiness and fright.

            Her laugh sprinkles itself around me, the sound of wind chimes beckoning through the night. “Of course it is.”

            “Then this is only a dream?”

            “Yes. This is only a dream. What else did you expect?”

            The maelstrom of questions and answers swirls into the eye of a hurricane and stands still within the center of my self.

            And I awake.

3

            I sit up straight on the stool, and look around. I’m seated at the corner of a bar, a spot where I can survey the entire crowd. The lighting is dim and hazy, but it can’t hide the stale smell of suffering that hangs in the air. Bottles that were once neatly stacked against the back wall have fallen into a pile of broken glass on the floor, glistening moonlit drops of green, yellow, and red casting a rainbow across the room. I reach out to touch the multicolored mass when my attention is grabbed by a loud and mournful wail that screams out from across the room.

            “Aaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggghhh.” A woman runs into the middle of the room and my sight is drawn immediately to her eyes, red orbs of anguish that drip the cold steel of fear-filled tears. “Tell me it isn’t so!”.

            A deep, masculine voice cries out to my left, “No! They can’t do it! They can’t.” He is an old man, gray hair accenting his etched, worn face. Lanky, wrinkled arms hang from a short-sleeved, yellow and red plaid button-up shirt, and bony legs stretch out from matching cotton shorts. As I stare, I realize that this is Mr. Watson, my High School Civics teacher. His piercing, eagle stare focus’ onto me. I cringe, worried that he’ll ask me a question, or worse, humiliate me in front of everyone. He looks into me, my secrets revealed in the instant of recognition. “What’s wrong Mr. Watson?” I ask respectfully.

            Filling me with a dread that is tangible, he proclaims, “It’s the end, Jimmy. They said so on the TV. The bombs are on the way. We only have fifteen more minutes.”

            More screams resound around me. I feel a panic that starts in the pit of my stomach and spreads towards my extremities. Bombs? The end? What??? How???..... The window of the bar shatters in a loud crash, sending glittering shards floating through the air in slow motion. I’m filled with the urge to run, to escape from this madness of people crying, people drinking, people screaming. ..... people everywhere in various stages of denial and reaction. They surround me on all side, closing in, drawing me deeper into their mad grief. I run, flying from step to step in long, graceful strides that span a hundred miles. My feet are feathers, lightly touching the earth as I pass over in a frantic pace. After miles and miles pass under me, I stop and glance around.

            I am in the middle of a street. The empty faces of store fronts stare at me in silence. People of all types mill around, some running, some walking, some crawling , but one and all trying to escape to somewhere that they can’t find. Ahead of me a mass of naked bodies writhes on the pavement. A pagan orgy of sexual decadence forms in celebration of creation in the midst of destruction. Bodies of men and women glisten with sweat, reflecting the sunlight and creating the illusion of a free flowing crystal; Old, fat men with young beautiful women with tall men of ebony with small Asian women wearing long, luscious hair with large women, their thick bodies a testament to the wonder of childbirth with strong men of rippling muscle with weak, skinny men with old women past menopause. From the street, more people rip off their clothes and join the frenzy of hands, mouths, and groins undulating in orgasmic spasms. I nearly join them when an authoritative cry brings me spinning around.

            “REPENT!!!! REPENT YOUR SINS!!!! For the hour of the Lord is at hand.” A stern looking man in a tall, dark hat and an old-fashioned suit stands firm and erect. He waves a large, heavy Bible covered in black leather. As he speaks, he thrusts the weighty volume into the air, emphasizing each word. His nose is long and straight, creating a sharp triangle that emerges from his perfectly flat forehead. “The hour of Our Lord is at hand. Will you be able to stand before the Lord God and tell him that you are free of sin? All men are filled with sin, so you must Repent for all you have done. Beg the Lord for forgiveness, Repent your sins before the Holy Name of His Son, Jesus Christ. You who have done wrong, pray that the Lord saves you from eternal damnation in the fiery pits of hell. Pray that your soul may join Him in His eternal heaven.”

            Around the preacher, a crowd of people begins falling to their knees, holding themselves against  the ground. One man with a small body lies with his knees bent underneath his body. He rises and falls at his waist, reciting a prayer I don’t understand. An older woman with gray and black streaked hair sits up on her knees. Her wrinkled hand clutches a crucifix that hangs down around her ample cleavage as she recites in a fast, melodious voice, “.... Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in heaven....” Next to her a couple sits facing each other, their legs crossed. Naked, they are perfectly still as they stare into each other’s eyes, humming in low, resonant tones. Next to me, a man pleads as he beats his fists into the hard, black asphalt. Red flecks form where he hits the ground. His blood mixes with the tears that fall from his face as he cries out “No!! God no! Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to do it. Please God, forgive me. No, God, no. Don’t do it. Please, if you let me live I’ll be good for the rest of my life. Please God, I promise. Don’t do it.”

            The loud report of gunfire echoes around me. Bullets fly, pinging off the ground, the curb, and the walls of the surrounding buildings. As the cold metal rips into the flesh of the praying masses, their blood becomes a bright red river that rushes into the gutter. A muscular man with arms as big as my legs holds a machine gun pointed towards the crowd. His face is contorted into a sick, evil grin, and his eyes shine with a maniacal malevolence. Behind him rides four motorcyclists wearing dark leather jackets, their exhaust pipes shooting out red tongues of flame that leave the ground black and scorched. Together they let out a boisterous laugh that turns into a shrill shriek filling the sky above me. The sound becomes a missile that flies directly over my head and erupts into a bright, white light.

            I am surrounded by a searing uniformity of color that is interrupted only by a small black spot. It grows from a dot into the shape of a person slowly approaching me with arms outstretched in an open, giving gesture. I recognize the disheveled hair and easy, graceful motion of Judy, her shape forming into perfect focus . I begin crying as her hands clasp mine in loving security.

            “This is another dream, isn’t it,” I state rather than ask. She merely nods her head in agreement, as the glaring light reaches into me and coalesces into one, steady point at the center of my mind.

            And I awake.

4

            I open my eyes and sit up in my bed. I’m covered with a down comforter, a warm, protective womb. Over this blanket is a quilt, each panel depicting a scene from my life: my first Christmas, my Grandmother’s death, my daughter’s birth, my High School Graduation, my wedding day, my first backpacking trip,..... As I look at each panel, I relive the moments of pain and triumph, of sadness and joy. The pictures ebb and flow like a river, all part of the same life, but each moment is as distinct as an individual. The room is lit by the gray light of a cloudy day, accented by the splatter of rain drops as they hit the roof and slide down the window. Walls made of deep red logs surround me on all sides. At my bedside is a table with a candle, thick and purple, waiting patiently for the night.

            “Daddy, daddy, are you ever getting up?” My daughter runs into the room, a mischievous smile plastered across her face. Her feet pitter-patter across the floor like the beating of a heart, and her high-pitched, little girl voice melts me in the light of it’s innocence. Her curly hair cascades down in thick, brown rivulets.

            “What’s happening, honey?” I ask in a warm, fatherly tone.

            Running in circles around the room with a burst of energy that only the exuberance of youth can maintain, she giggles, then breaks into a loud, hearty laugh that shakes her entire body. “C’mon, Daddy. Get up. Today’s the Gathering Day. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go....” She screams the last part at the top of her lungs as she runs over to the side of the bed and begins to pull on my arm. I pretend I’m fighting her as I let her pull me slowly out from under my warm shelter.

            The Gathering Day? Whatever could that mean. Then, as though I’m talking to myself from across the room, I know that this is the day when the whole community gets together and celebrates the coming of the harvest season. Together we work in our communal fields, harvesting the fruits and vegetables that will see us through the winter, everyone together for one day of celebration and sharing. It is a day of joy, but also of sadness, for the Gathering Day marks the Fall Equinox. For the next six months, the nights will be longer than the days as the transformations of Autumn lead to the cold introspection and silent contemplation of Winter. I know all this. In a flash I know this, so it must be true.

            My daughter’s small, delicate hand continues to pull me towards the bedroom door. The walls of the room, the doorway, and the door itself are all built with logs that I felled with my own hands. We live in a firm, solid home, and it is mine in the sense that I am it and it is me. My own blood, sweat, and hopes have made this home real, just as they make me real. I follow the grain of the wood with my eyes, seeing each band of color as an infinite line that runs between now and then, no particular moment existing between.

            The steady pressure exerted by my daughter draws me into the living room. The thick curtains are drawn back from the large, south-facing window. Bright sunlight filters through the clouds which break up before my eyes, improvising the promise of a warm day. Light splashes into the room, giving shape and definition to the couch, chairs, and Oriental rug that make up the simple furnishings of my home. At the far end of the room stands the central focus, a brick hearth with an old but very usable woodstove silently standing at attention. A strong smell which I can’t immediately identify but recognize as breakfast wafts from a pot set atop the stove. To the left of the hearth stands a simple wooden shelf that serves as the family alter. A lit candle sits in the center, surrounded by treasures that hold a special place in our hearts. The dried remains of flowers catch my eye, then the blue-green glint of a wild peacock feather, then the bright glare of a quartz crystal, then the expressionistic lines of our daughter’s first drawing.

            I walk towards the alter, and my hand reaches out and picks up a shell, it’s opalescence casting rainbows from exposed mother of pearl. My memory is drawn to a night spent on the beach. Neither she nor I speak as we hold each other in silent contemplation. The silver moonlight accents the delicate curves of her smiling face. I drift away in space and time, but return suddenly as a melodious chant fills my consciousness. The beauty of the voice pulls me outside into the warm morning light.

            Beyond the doorway lies a vast field of flowers, an impressionistic painting dipped into a rainbow. A sweet, skunky odor fills my nose as I breathe deeply the morning air and savor the delicious scents around me. Swaying and dancing, the floral display writhes in ecstasy, paying homage to the sun. Leaves are covered in drops from the nightly rain, a glittering meadow of diamonds that shine into the wind. The song I hear rises and falls, telling a tale of happy seeds germinating and growing into strong, beautiful flowers. In it’s simplicity lies the wonderment of creation and the nature of life and death as it revolves through the transformation of now. My reverie is broken when the sweet melody stops. A calm voice calls out to me.

            “So, you finally decided to get up.”

            I turn around, and there she stands, the crisp morning light glinting in her dark, brown eyes. I am drawn deeper and deeper towards her soul as recognition of the moment fills me with fascination.

            “Judy?” my voice tentatively asks.

            “Yes, it’s me.”

            “Then this is just a dream,” I state in a firm tone.

            Judy’s chest rises and falls with a sigh as she responds, “Yes. This is a dream.”

            Reality collapses with a soft “whump” as the potential world takes on a new aspect towards the actual. I look at Judy, her simple dress hanging loosely over the voluptuous curves of her body. My daughter’s laughter fills the background as my mind filters the scene. The surreal merges with the real, and I feel my control over my surroundings solidify.

            And I didn’t awake. I just kept on dreaming.

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