I was a free man in Paris/I felt unfettered and alive
Ever since a fellow Mother-of-a-first-grader mentioned that she woke up every morning at 3 a.m., and struggled to get back to sleep, my body has decided to pull the same stunt. With the stipulation that the time changes. And that the dreams around the awakening become more convoluted and scary.
I’ve always been an insomniac, but the early morning rousings are bugging me a lot more lately. They seem to come on the heels of some nightmare or other, something where kids are in trouble, or I’m lost in a strange city, or I’m bedding a stranger who I know is not a very nice fella.
Last night the dream had a meadow, a movie, my husband, something clean and pure and about to be trampled, and I awoke realizing I hadn’t taken a breath in a while. Several hours later, when my alarm went off, I woke up not knowing where I was, or where the alarm was, or where my gun was. For the record, I don’t own a gun. I had to sit on the edge of the bed for a while to put the puzzle pieces together, like “Memento”, but without the clever camera shots and tattooed events.
If I could just break this brain of mine, like a crazy horse, rein it in and teach it to go where I lead it and stay when the lights go off.
If I could sleep 6 straight hours, with no dreams, so deeply and so completely that I woke up refreshed.
If I could get some breath in my lungs.
I do find, though, that after a night like that, certain areas of my brain work better.
A story idea that I mulled around last week formed itself into a nice round bouncy ball this morning, and I just finished a beginning outline of what could be something. Albeit something I’d need to videotape, because the words wouldn’t come, but the images did.
I dream in color.
In both videotape and film.
My dreams are also in re-run syndication.