This Is An Exercise In Words – ReubenRock.com

I have dreams. My current subscription is to the notion that dreams are just bits of data being reorganized. Shuffled about to the corners of your mind. These are the thoughts you’ve had in the last day or two. The brief experiences that maybe you wouldn’t normally need to remember, but your brain won’t let the entire memory slip away for good. So it stores a piece of it in a safe place. A place where you won’t touch or extinguish it. So it can haunt you in the morning and leave a haze over what’s real and what isn’t.

My most recent dreams involved a number of people, objects, and tensions from this week.

In one, Dexter (my dog) runs after another man’s dog in the neighborhood. He is simply being playful, but he interrupts something important. Throws off a crime that the man was committing. So the man shoots Dexter with a shotgun.

Crime has permeated this week. The reality of it has crept up a number of times in a number of places. The shotgun is related to this, as I’ve considered whether or not I should purchase one to protect myself and my loved ones. I’ve struggled with that, as I’m also aware of the statistics surrounding gun ownership and theft. I don’t want to contribute to a greater problem in this city. Dexter has been on my mind, as well. Is he happy? Am I providing a comfortable home for him? Should I let him run free on my mother’s land in middle Tennessee, where he can stretch his legs and enjoy the company of other dogs?

In the other, my grandmother dies. I watch it happen. And while traveling to the funeral, I ride in a vehicle packed full with my siblings and my father. As if I were a part of one cohesive family unit. The skies were colorless, and the sway of the vehicle lulled me into a silent state. I didn’t have the words in me, so I sat without making a sound.

I had just recalled the family complications related to the death of one of my grandmothers (on my mother’s side) while I was talking with my girlfriend. How it created a rift that hasn’t been crossed in over ten years. That separation began with her death. And as I’ve since lost my father and one of my brothers, another rift has developed between myself and my father’s side of the family. Will I allow that tension to completely remove my branch from the tree? It weighs heavy on whatever part the soul is.

As you can see, I have evidence to support my beliefs about dreams. Bits and pieces. Leftovers from the day being replayed. They combine into these incredibly mournful scenes. And that’s the power of dreams. As hard as it can be to remember them at times, it can often be even more difficult to forget them.

Summer is over, and we’ve all partnered up like it’s the last dance. Prepared to brave the cold like cavemen. Just the warmth of bodies to protect us.

But the heavy, humid air and bright lights will return. Mark my words. We all come full circle.

In the mean time, let’s write on these cave walls. Scrawl your dreams across their stone faces. Their eyes watch as we write blueprints for July and wait for the paint to dry.

I dreamed of a boat. A small vessel. Simply a sail and enough space for two friends to venture out into the bay. We were surrounded by vacationers, and there was some sort of tour guide within earshot but never within my line of sight. Maybe you saw him, but I wouldn’t know. Or would I? They say we are every character in our dreams. I suppose then that you were just a projection of me. Some part of my being. What I can say, and what I know for sure, is that we have been friends a long time. And sailing with you atop such a tiny hull through crowded waters would be fine by me.

What did we see out there? I remember there was a barrier that came down from the sky, blocking us from entering the greater ocean landscape. There were other boats, rowboats and sailing ships alike.

I guess we found what we were looking for, because eventually we turned back to the docks.

Stepping off our deck and toward the mainland, which was scattered with rental homes, we came across a dog. He lounged comfortably, and his skin folded onto itself. His eyes were lazy. And we complimented his owner (the tour guide) on owning such an impressive beast.

But our journey didn’t end there. As we made our way back to the small, wooden structure we had apparently been calling home for the week, you asked for my expertise on a matter. “I’m going to make a trade with a man. You are the only person I know and trust to advise me in this way. How should I fold these dollar bills? And where should I store my goods?”

I must have sighed heavily. Part of me felt ashamed that I was keeper of such knowledge. But I offered this technique out of love for my friend. “Fold your bills this way. Hand them to the man discretely. And bring me your package. I’ll put it somewhere safe for you.”

Perhaps we should have stayed at sea where our two souls were innocent, because suddenly you were gone into the sunny streets to do shady deals.