The Wikiness

60 years ago, Bob Dylan told us, “If my thought dreams could be seen, they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.” Capital punishment for a dream? That would be unjust. After all, how much is anyone responsible for the unscripted stories that nightly command our attention during REM sleep? 

The most law-abiding and conformist of citizens has a brain that will serve up dreams in which the dreamer, the protagonist, breaks taboos, violates laws, and appalls public decency. Freud said those dreams provided imagined fulfilment of repressed wishes. Carl Jung, meanwhile, believed that all dreams, including the “criminal” type, work to provoke spiritual growth for the dreamer. REM sleep is thus a nightly chance for one’s unconscious mind to meet consciousness itself. 

I wonder what those eminent psychologists would make of the typical dreams I’m having lately.  These are not “dangerous” dreams at all. They might instead be called “comfort” dreams. If they were enacted before me in real life, I’d feel calmly engaged as if sunk in a sofa watching a good detective show.

For in essence, these dreams are like a formulaic TV script in which I am the lead investigator. I find myself in a familiar place from my past — a house I once inhabited, a school where I worked, and a cleaning site I managed — and a problem arises that demands a solution. The theme of these dreams is that if I assert my particular brand of genius, everything will be resolved. 

In these dreams, I lead an intrepid band of people I know or knew–friends, work colleagues, family–and we work together to surmount the difficulty. But usually we won’t get there. I wake before the job is done because, perhaps (from a Jungian perspective), the point is to appreciate the small details and the joys of collaboration along the path.

How could such narratives help my soul evolve?

Perhaps these “let’s all work together to improve things” stories function as a counter-balance to the stories of unbridled ego that the light of every day discloses, in increasing numbers. Perhaps the Universe reminds me thus that while I can’t change the whole, mad, ego-driven world, in the confines of a defined place and with some helpful others, a joyous pursuit of the common good is possible. 

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are,” they reassure me.

Then again, last night I had one of my “I’m the leader of this class–all these kids are looking up to me, and I’m fucking up” anxiety dreams, in which the trope is inverted, and the reminder is, “stay humble.” 

Regardless, whoever directs my dreams deserves an Emmy. I find myself mid-dream, blown away by the ingenuity of the plot as it unfolds. These “lucid” dreams are as good or better than any Hollywood production I’ve seen. 

“I must remember this excellent plot twist when I wake up,” I tell myself.

But unless I write it down immediately, the critically acclaimed drama floats away from memory with each waking  breath.