& Then I Woke Up…

I knew we were in a dream as soon as I couldn’t remember what I did earlier that day. But then again, that’s been happening more often lately in waking hours too. Maybe I couldn’t be so sure. I usually play along as if everything is real in dreams as it is – what with the night tremors and all.

We leave the beach just when it’s beginning to quiet down for the day. These are the times when I stay and soak in the tranquil ocean sounds and hope to steal from the sand whatever warmth is left from the sun, but we had other plans for that evening. I’ve been known to let my friends go on without me so I can get a few last looks before I catch up. This time though, I pack up with them and we make our way back. We didn’t feel that exhaustion in that bedraggled way you might after a long day – or multiple days – on the beach. Tired, for sure, but the kind of tired you get from a good workout. Euphoric almost.

You see, with night terrors, you can’t let the other parts of your consciousness become aware that you know it’s all just a dream. It’s a delicate balance. If you keep up the guise of ignorance to what is essentially yourself, you leave yourself an out – a way to eject yourself from even the worst nightmares. Tip the proverbial hand and you’re exposed. The dream becomes a cage match to the death. Attempts to remind yourself that it’s a nightmare and that none of it can actually hurt you are useless at this point. This is why I play along in dreams – good ones included. Sometimes I’ll steer a bit when I’m really confident that it’s a good one, but all too often, a good one can turn bad at the most unexpected of moments.

Thinking about it, I realize that my dreams are more or less in line with my creativity and depression. The trope is that artists do their best, most creative work when they’re in the throes of depression. I’ve always been paralyzed by it though. When I’m happy, and I mean sunshine-on-the-face-after-a-thunderstorm happy, I’ve felt an energy like no other. And depending on how happy, it comes in at different frequencies inching closer to my resonance. At the peaks, I’m vibrating. My mind is flooded with ideas and I’m craving that release of endorphins – the high – from creating. My unconscious mirrors those conscious emotions.

This means, though, that in the darker, sadder periods, I have fewer dreams, if any at all. When I do dream, they tend to be blander than an appliance salesman from the `80s and almost inevitably end as a nightmare. Think hanging out in the curtain section of a suburban department store and then realizing someone is coming to kill you.

But I’ve been taking RSO (or full extract cannabis oil) nightly for a few weeks. This eases the depression and thus, gives me my imaginative dreams back. Not just riffs or followups to experiences like some dreams. These are full on new memories.

I turn around and smile at Naomi. Neither of us mention how unusually vivid the sky is. But we’ve also never been to California and seen the cocktail-esque vibrance and haze of a sunset common after a string of wildfires. It was this punchy pink where the sky met the horizon along with streaks here and there, with a fade to a warm, crisp orange paired perfectly with magenta clouds. We had all just hopped in the car – this station wagon that I might’ve actually purchased – after spending the day at the beach playing with a trippy jet ski-like motor attachment on a friend’s longboard. It gave your paddling a needed boost and put you right into the wave. I’m a purest myself, but I couldn’t deny how much fun it was to catch every wave I went for.

The playlist was hitting just right and I had that salty sticky feeling on my skin. I was almost certain this was a dream, but I couldn’t manage to punch holes in it. The only indicator was the slightly faded vision I had going on – a black vignette around my eyes. But for all I know, my blood-sugar was low again.

Maybe I should just try to enjoy this for what it is, I thought. Maybe I’m falling into the same trap I do in real life, where I never let myself truly enjoy a moment because I look for what could make it just that much better.

So I spin around in the fabric seat, the kind with those patterns of thick beads or wafts of thread. I brush my hand across the leather that bounds the fabric on the edges, look up, and kick my feet up and out the window. It was my car, but sun-drenched and exhausted me thought I’d toss the keys to the friend that was dying to drive this vintage beach cruiser with a longboard sticking out the back window. I couldn’t blame them.

“So are you getting hungry?” I ask Naomi. She looks back with a mellow and content expression. “I could eat” she says with a polite shrug. I’m craving tacos and margs until I’m reminded by the friend that’s driving that I’ve sworn off alcohol. People seem hellbent on making you stick to your self-imposed dietary restrictions. I remember that when I quit meat, and then again when I quit dairy and I’d go out for ice cream. Skipping meat was easier because I knew how badly it messed with my insides, but dairy? I grew up drinking a few glasses of whole milk each day and adored really rich chocolate ice cream. Vegan ice cream hadn’t yet come on the scene, so I’d indulge my cravings on occasion and pay for it later.

“How about tacos and ice cream then. Since you don’t really drink these days either” I say.

“That sounds so perfect” Naomi says, leaning over the bench seat into the front row.

“Perfect. That’s the plan then. Take it from there.” I say, smiling at Naomi and then at the friend driving. I put my sunglasses on and close my eyes with my feet still hanging out the window just over the mirror.

Briefly, I wonder why I don’t know the friend’s name and wonder if that’s the clue. But I never remember acquaintances names the first dozen or so times. I’ve never been good with names in general for that matter, so I let the thought pass and let the trip – real or not – take me where the road leads next.

The sun sets as we finish our tacos and I remember a time when I played mini golf with Lisa. I don’t remember there being much of a friendship between us, but after that night driving go-karts and playing mini-golf in Tampa, we became inseparable. We found out we lived not far from each other and would have weekly talks at the Starbucks halfway between her house and mine. I still think about them every time I see a Starbucks. It’s when I truly began appreciating coffee for the conversation it sparks. It’s funny how often real memories will crop up in a dream the way they do in real life.

“Time for ice cream!” Naomi shouts in a squeaky happy voice.

My mind still in the nighttime, I recall a trip to Assateague with Stu and his friend Katelyn. A friend from middle school, he noticed that I moved to the DC area and asked if I wanted to make the trek out to the beach to surf a bit. Stu played the violin and would breakdance at school dances. We went to catholic school, so dances happened about once a month. Sometimes twice if there was a holiday like Valentine’s Day. It was a chance for sanctioned flirting and goofing off – under supervision of course. But that didn’t stop anyone from falling in love with a new person each night. Dances would come to shape the romantic landscape of the 7th and 8th grade classes. There was this chatter about who everyone was planning or at least hoping to dance with come the Monday of the week of every dance. But the talk wasn’t around the *NSYNC jams or the Vanessa Carlton ballads. It was around the one song the chaperones would play for the slow-dance. I still recall the goosebumps from my first.

We spent the day surfing, and with PB&J not cutting it at keeping my blood-sugar up, I asked to pack up and grab food at the boardwalk in Ocean City. So we did. We rinsed off our bodies and wetsuits, changed, and climbed back into the maroon Chevy Suburban and made our way north. I snapped a photo of the wild horses on the edge of the park. We ate fresh pizza from a stone oven and sipped tiny Coronas as the sun set beside us. Stu knew of the best ice cream in Maryland and had plans to stop in before we went back to DC.

‘Dumser’s Dairyland’ the perfectly vintage neon sign read against the fresh zinc white paint. I got the mint chocolate chip and sat down in between them on the bench in the busy courtyard in front of the shop. I was on a film kick then, so I pulled out my dad’s old Sun 660 Polaroid and snapped another photo – this time a selfie of the three of us licking the ice cream. Out popped the shot with a bold purple frame. “Limited edition pack”, I told them. Katelyn found it wild. Stu wanted to keep it. I gave them two others from that day and we drove home in near silence listening to Grum on Stu’s iPod.

I made it a point to go to Dumser’s every time I went to Assateague after that. Sometimes with friends. Other times were solo. Always Dumser’s. Always a photo after getting a cone. #Though the flavors were too numerous and ever-changing to stick with the same mint chocolate chip.

Taking a trip down there with my then-girlfriend Jenny years later, I mentioned the tradition to her with a grin on my face but a distant sinking in my chest I tried to hide.

“Why don’t we go now?” she asked. “Nahhh. Maybe not this time.”

She seemed disappointed.

I knew what getting ice cream would entail. I had become really sensitive to dairy and tried using Lactaid to combat the symptoms that come with eating it. But I didn’t pack any and that would run me at least $17 at CVS or Walgreen’s, and other $14 or so for the ice cream. I wasn’t doing great with freelancing and was pretty broke at this point. Having already spent over $400 on the rental car and meals that week, I swallowed the more bitter pill of the two and told Jenny we should skip Dumser’s – breaking my tradition. We got to the pizza place and after a quiet meal, she insisted on paying. She knew. I felt awful because I loved her and wanted this to be a memorable trip together, but I loved her even more for understanding. She worked for a non-profit and made a modest salary, but certainly made more than me while I was struggling, despite exhausting every avenue I knew of at the time.

Through this string of daydreams, Naomi pulls me out of it.

“Hey. You alright? Spacing out there a bit”, she says.

“Just reminiscing”, I tell her. “You know me.” I smirk.

The day felt like three or four in one. How was it only just now night time? This must be a dream. I think back to that trip with Jenny. And the one with Alicia and Lisa. And just me. And the first one with Stu and Katelyn. And that trip to Tampa with Lisa. “All the best days feel endless or like time is taking it easy” I say, unintentionally thinking aloud. They both nod in agreement. “For sure.” “They really do, don’t they.”

I yawn and we opt to call it a day and head home. The air is brisk and mildly chilly at this point and while we have the windows open a crack, we’ve turned on the heat and put on sweatshirts. Sweat and a mustiness from the heater fills the cabin then are immediately swept away by the cool air rushing in through the windows. I’m content. It’s been a good day. Or good dream. I’m still not quite sure, but I’m not sure I care anymore. Not caring works in my favor anyway in case I need to wake up.

(Originally written 05 December 2018)