My Greatest Dream Ever

Rarely, do I record my dreams in my journal. I almost never discuss them with anyone. Whenever dream sequences appear in fiction, I skip right over them (except the story of Joseph in the Old Testament). I did read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams and subscribe to many of its assertions. I once taught an extremely popular dream-themed writing workshop to my English and creative writing students. It produced remarkable material full of deep reflection and insights. Dream life and visions in many indigenous cultures fascinate me. Imagine plotting a tribe’s immediate future after a shaman interprets a persona vision. (That would certainly present a better method than what currently unfolds as leadership in Congress.)

Despite some of my statements above, I feel compelled to explore in writing a dream I had a week ago, a dream that I cannot stop thinking about and is easily the most important and possibly consequential in my lifetime.

To begin with, it was not a traditional dream where I interacted with other people, dead or alive, real or imagined, or my long lost dogs. There was no place in this dream. There was no designated time. There was no physical action. There were no emotions. There was nothing of sex.

I was the only person in the dream and it was me as I am now, a 59-nine year old man living in Oregon who has spent the last eight years trying to rebuild and recreate his life after a total extinction of self and the loss of almost everything I held dear.

In the dream, which was more of a metaphysical meditation than any kind of narrative activity, I was presented an opportunity, a choice (by some unknown being or force) to turn back time and have what happened to me in 2016 not have happened and my life gone on the way it probably would have, meaning living in Astoria in my new house, teaching a few more years, writing books, gigging, and not really present in my family’s lives or cultivating deep friendships.

I chose to turn back time and have what happened NOT HAPPEN. Then the dream unfolded my life as it would have unfolded with that decision and it went pretty much the way I described above. It was, boring, flat, repetitive, intellectually listless, creatively stunted. Nothing really new or unexpected happened. Everything was old hat.

As the dream unfolded, I was able to compare my life with what actually happened in those eight years and even to look beyond. I was conscious that my subsequent life after the catastrophe, was much more rich and interesting and totally unpredictable in a good way.

In the choice not to have what happened happen, I wouldn’t have:

Volunteered at a senior dog shelter and met Bonnie and Clyde.

Got out of teaching for good.

Met the best friends of my life, Jennifer and Holt.

Met the extraordinary couples of Earl and Carolyn and Kevin and Wendy.

Worked as a construction laborer, and found it to be the best and most practical job in my life.

Discovered the Southern Oregon Coast and RV life.

Taken care of my elderly father and got to know him.

Published Smoky Eplely’s book.

Published my aunt’s collection of memoirs.

Published Pete’s epic novel of the Vietnam War.

Become a substantive writer of Oregon fiction.

Built more driftwood forts than anyone in Oregon history.

Had a tarot reading in a driftwood fort.

Produced the Oregon Tavern Age publication.

Reconnected with AG and MT and almost RD.

Met Kelly from the Bay Area and Kelly from Portland.

Found out who my real friends were.

Learned what friendship is all about.

Learned how terrible, ineffective and cruel our justice system is.

Written a book about a group of homeless men and women in Portland that seems to have connected with many people.

Discovered what phonies most writers are.