dreams
I’ve been having dreams about being in jails and prisons for some time. These places and situations frequently permeate my dreams, to the point that is seems strange to me. For awhile I thought it was because I work with an organization that mails books to people imprisoned, and I read a lot of letters from people in cages. I thought maybe it had something to do with having been jailed for very short periods of time myself. I think any experience with that institution, even very limited ones, permanently work their way into a person’s psyche.
But this morning, after awaking from a night of many dreams, at least two of which dealt with being imprisoned, some other factor I hadn’t considered suddenly, and seemingly springing directly from the last dream I was dreaming before awakening, appeared in my mind. It sounds unlikely that I hadn’t considered it before, but I hadn’t, at least not concretely. And, I am sure it is really a combination of all these influences, and probably others, that has led to frequent dreams involving jails and prisons.
At any rate, for some reason after wakening from the dream early this morning, I realized that it seems to have something to do with my present physical condition. I am frequently in a lot of pain and it has become increasingly limiting, in the sense of physical activities I pursue. I think this is at the heart of the visions of bars, cells, and the machinations that put people there (sometimes the dreams are about the processing part of a jail, not the cells, and about attempts to apprehend me or others…police, chases, etc.).
In the dream this morning, I was imprisoned in a grey stone building, a tower of some sort. I peered out through a small barred window onto a heaving, grey sea. Waves broke soundlessly on the shore below and slightly at a distance away from the structure. I saw someone I knew walking below. I shouted out to them. I yelled out, calling to them. They came up to a larger iron grill or barred door set in the wall perpendicular to the one with the small window. Somehow, the iron grill was at ground level and the person I knew was standing at a level with me. I asked him to please take a note to my parents. He hesitated, and then someone was standing with him and advised him not to take the note. They were afraid it would be intercepted and result in them being in trouble with some powerful authority. I said I could write it on a quarter of a sheet of paper and he could carry it in his hand, thereby being ready to stick it in his mouth, chew, and swallow if they were questioned or apprehended, or if a situation proved dangerous in some similar fashion.
He agreed to this, over the protestations of his companion, and I proceeded to tear a piece of paper into quarters. I had paper and pen with me. The paper had only one clean side, the other having been previously printed on. It was much the same as the quarter pieces of paper we use in our house as scratch paper. I tried writing a note, and I think I had to make more than one attempt to communicate what I wanted in the small space, adapting the size of the script accordingly. I tried fitting a few words in the spaces between text on the back side, as well.
I woke before I finished writing what I wanted to tell my parents. I remember being uncertain about it; I didn’t want them to put themselves at risk, but I clearly wanted help in getting out of the confinement I was in. And I knew my parents would want to know where I was and what had happened and would want to aid me. I also wanted to send them my love.
It’s interesting that the person I was giving the note to is a person in my waking life who recently gave me an old chainsaw that wasn’t working and that he didn’t want anymore. Yesterday, I spent a few hours working on it—cleaning it and replacing a part I had ordered the week before. I got it up and running and cut up a couple of the large limbs of hardwood we have stacked in the back yard. I was pleasantly surprised I was able to get it working. I wonder if this made me feel a somewhat renewed sense of agency. Whatever it was, I think it is related to that person being in the dream I had this morning.
But this morning, after awaking from a night of many dreams, at least two of which dealt with being imprisoned, some other factor I hadn’t considered suddenly, and seemingly springing directly from the last dream I was dreaming before awakening, appeared in my mind. It sounds unlikely that I hadn’t considered it before, but I hadn’t, at least not concretely. And, I am sure it is really a combination of all these influences, and probably others, that has led to frequent dreams involving jails and prisons.
At any rate, for some reason after wakening from the dream early this morning, I realized that it seems to have something to do with my present physical condition. I am frequently in a lot of pain and it has become increasingly limiting, in the sense of physical activities I pursue. I think this is at the heart of the visions of bars, cells, and the machinations that put people there (sometimes the dreams are about the processing part of a jail, not the cells, and about attempts to apprehend me or others…police, chases, etc.).
In the dream this morning, I was imprisoned in a grey stone building, a tower of some sort. I peered out through a small barred window onto a heaving, grey sea. Waves broke soundlessly on the shore below and slightly at a distance away from the structure. I saw someone I knew walking below. I shouted out to them. I yelled out, calling to them. They came up to a larger iron grill or barred door set in the wall perpendicular to the one with the small window. Somehow, the iron grill was at ground level and the person I knew was standing at a level with me. I asked him to please take a note to my parents. He hesitated, and then someone was standing with him and advised him not to take the note. They were afraid it would be intercepted and result in them being in trouble with some powerful authority. I said I could write it on a quarter of a sheet of paper and he could carry it in his hand, thereby being ready to stick it in his mouth, chew, and swallow if they were questioned or apprehended, or if a situation proved dangerous in some similar fashion.
He agreed to this, over the protestations of his companion, and I proceeded to tear a piece of paper into quarters. I had paper and pen with me. The paper had only one clean side, the other having been previously printed on. It was much the same as the quarter pieces of paper we use in our house as scratch paper. I tried writing a note, and I think I had to make more than one attempt to communicate what I wanted in the small space, adapting the size of the script accordingly. I tried fitting a few words in the spaces between text on the back side, as well.
I woke before I finished writing what I wanted to tell my parents. I remember being uncertain about it; I didn’t want them to put themselves at risk, but I clearly wanted help in getting out of the confinement I was in. And I knew my parents would want to know where I was and what had happened and would want to aid me. I also wanted to send them my love.
It’s interesting that the person I was giving the note to is a person in my waking life who recently gave me an old chainsaw that wasn’t working and that he didn’t want anymore. Yesterday, I spent a few hours working on it—cleaning it and replacing a part I had ordered the week before. I got it up and running and cut up a couple of the large limbs of hardwood we have stacked in the back yard. I was pleasantly surprised I was able to get it working. I wonder if this made me feel a somewhat renewed sense of agency. Whatever it was, I think it is related to that person being in the dream I had this morning.
posted by matt iv at 9:28 AM
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