Film Noir In My Dreams

Where do they come from, those crazy and strange dreams? Subconscious thoughts are interesting things that, most of the time in my case, stay in my subconscious. I rarely remember my dreams these days. Maybe once or twice a year when I awake suddenly in the middle of one. Whether a short snippet or an epic of sorts, strange details float into my abruptly-woken mind and cause me to question my inner thoughts.

As a child and young adult, I quite often remembered my dreams and attributed many to the more active imagination of my youth. Those were the days when I had buckets of energy as opposed to these days when getting a good, long and deep sleep is a priority.

The last few nights were ones of the wake-sleep-toss, wake-sleep-toss variety, and I was back under in sleep mode early in the morning when my husband got up, as most of us do at this age, to use the washroom. Because I am such a light sleeper, this, of course, woke me up as it usually does. And this time, the visuals of my dream were still there. These subconscious events began playing out in my head. I was remembering what appeared to be most of complete dream sequence.

It started with my son, who is now thirty-one, but was only about ten in my dream, asking me to come to the airport so I could take the guns away. What guns? I asked, and he proceeded to take me outside to where a couple of open suitcases lay in the back garden next to a young boy that I didn’t know. They were supposed to be going on a school trip and apparently packing in my garden. Inside the first suitcase was a large black pistol. I didn’t know whether it was real or not and didn’t ask in the dream. I retrieved it and told the boy that he can’t take guns to the airport. Then I asked him if he had any more and he said yes, a Glock. He reached into the other suitcase and presented a tiny chrome pistol that was the size of a small water gun and could fit in the palm of my hand, which I also took away knowing that it wasn’t a Glock even though I had never seen a Glock.

Again I have no idea if these were real or toys. But since I live in Canada, where it is difficult for ten-year-olds to get their hands on real guns, I want to believe that they were toys. (Especially that Glock.) I do remember the relief I felt when the boy gave them up with no argument. In the dream, I also remember that I was proud of myself for keeping my cool. I didn’t lose my shit over the situation. Maybe I could be the cool mom after all. 

From here, I went back inside my house, though not my real house, to find it absolutely full of people. There were strangers wandering through every room. This is where my cool disappeared and I lost my shit. Even in my dreams I can raise my voice and curse. But like most good Canadians I did not use the guns I scooped from the boy in my garden. Someone mentioned that they were invited there by Melanie, the real estate agent. I responded that Melanie did not make the appropriate appointments and needed to tell me about these things in advance… then my husband rolled out of bed and I woke up to remember it all.

The funny thing about this dream is that I know exactly where it all came from. The news is overflowing with stories of school shootings and children obtaining guns south of the border. It is disconcerting, and I have trouble understanding the gun culture of our big neighbour. I have trouble relating to political views that put guns before lives. There is no way to avoid all that news when trying to stay current. In the dream, I was proud of my son for coming forward to do something about the guns. In real life, he has grown into a good person who believes in doing the “right” thing.

The garden is definitely my garden. We are in the middle of our long slow spring; and although I have been out in my garden a couple of times, I am anxious to get out again soon. My mind is full of gardening thoughts and plans. My garden is my sanctuary and fortunately has no suitcases holding guns in real life.

The second part of the dream relates to a house that is for sale on my street. A house where my son’s friend Melanie used to live. Melanie, a very lovely person, also looked after our dog Freckles years ago when we went on holidays because Freckles wasn’t fond of kennels and liked people much better than strange dogs. He loved Melanie. As far as I know, Melanie is not a real estate agent. She left for Newfoundland to attend Memorial University and I never saw her again. But I do think of her when I walk by her home. When this house went on the market, I had to be nosy and check it out online because I have always wanted to see what this modern-styled house looked like on the inside. It did not disappoint. It won’t be on the market for long. And now it will live forever in my thoughts because it was this house that was my house, full of people, in my dream.

So I did not ask the where-did-this-come-from-question this morning. Instead I asked why did my subconscious put together three unrelated thoughts to create a dream as disturbing as a dark movie? That’s a question I know I will never get an answer to.

Thank you for reading. 

Photo:  Isabella Fischer, Unsplash

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