I’m not a vivid dreamer. For me sleep is just pushing through those six or seven hours in absolute silence, darkness, and cold, until the next morning when I can get back to the business of living.
I think we all dream every night, working out the day’s stuff. Usually, I don’t remember those dreams. The last two nights have been the exception. On Wednesday, I dreamt about buying an apartment with a water view. It was next to a train line, and I walked into the newly purchased apartment to an utter mess. The previous owners had only half cleaned. The shelves were filled with books, a rotting banana reeked in the cupboard. The wood floor boards were warped. What stood out the most, though as the color of the walls. They were painted the most vivid aquamarine. I’m now convinced it’s a sign: that I must repaint my office for inspiration. But . . . I probably won’t.
On Thursday, I dreamt I witnessed an accident on Laurel Canyon, near Mulholland Drive. A red Jeep SUV deliberately ran an old, brown Toyota Cressida off the road. I pulled over and ran to the victim. He was badly injured. The police arrived, but didn’t seem interested in finding the perpetrator. Standing on Laurel at anytime day or night would be dangerous to one’s health. So I told the cop, I was leaving. At which point he said that it would be suspicious for me to flee. I left anyway, only dodging a truck barreling up the road.
I’ve never been one for dream interpretation, but remembering something so vivid that keeps nagging at my brain probably has some meaning. And maybe one day I’ll find out. In the meantime, I will not be visiting any apartments, nor driving on Laurel Canyon.