Some
Typical Dreams
Last night, I had a
few dreams that are of a nature I’m sure all of us have from time to time. I won’t pretend to be a Freudian
psychoanalyst and interpret the meaning of these dreams, but merely ponder on
what they caused me to feel in and out of them.
In both of these
dreams, I’ve returned to Jersey City, my home town after a long absence.
In one dream, I am
in a liquor store in a seedy area.
Outside, vagrants are loitering around the store. I can’t decide what to buy, and the clerk, a
lanky guy with a close cropped hair-cut is making various suggestions. I name a beer and he gives me the price. We
do this over and over, but I am not coming to a decision. I say: man, that’s high; things have gone
up, since I was here. The patrons
around me agree. The place smells like
vomit, a stench hangs in the air, and shifty-eye people are milling about aimlessly. I finally pick Amaretto. He says the
price is $10.10. I say okay, he bags
it, and comes around the counter to take the bag outside, I don’t notice that
this is strange, and follow him out. I
am fishing in my wallet to get the money as we pass, dangerous looking types:
winos drinking together, addicts lying in alleys, and groups of men whispering
conspiratorially. It now dawns on me,
that he could’ve handed me the bottle in the store. The fact that he
accompanied me out is suspicious. Is he
going to rob me when I hand him the money?
He has two or three dimes ready in his hand, as I try, with difficulty
to get the ten-dollar bill out of my wallet.
I can’t separate the bills that are new and crisp. I file through several five dollar bills and even a 50 dollar one, before finally extracting a 10. I’m sure all the criminal elements on this street have
noticed. He takes the 10 and hands me 2
dimes and waves his hands indicating I don’t have to bother with the 10-cent
change. He beats a hasty retreat to the
store. I am left alone. Now, I can feel imminent attack is
likely. I start walking toward where my
home is, but I’m weak and tired. As I stride each step takes such effort, my
right leg is dragging. I have the bag
in my left arm cradled like a football.
I am getting slower and slower, until I am lying down, crawling along,
dragging myself with my right arm. I
look to my right and see a group of men, talking and eyeing me, seeming to be
waiting for the right moment to strike.
In the next second, I wake up.
What is always
strange about a dream is the difference in dream state perceptions, and those
of your conscious mind. In the dream it
seems perfectly understandable at first, when the clerk lead me out of the
store, that he was doing this to protect me from the patrons in the store. He didn’t want them to witness our
transaction and me with all that money.
The next dream involves
several mental devices. It is a more
complete example of the complex nature of nocturnal experience. In this dream, I experience an element of
consciousness that I assume is common to most dreams. I am actor and observer.
That is to say, I am somehow outside myself as well as acting in the
dream. In this dream also, I am
detached not really a part of the scene I observe until a point. I am going through a review of my former
life, the landmarks and memories.
I am in Marion
Gardens housing project. This project
was home during my early adolescence. I
walk around seeing people I knew, buildings and streets I traveled through, but
no one even recognizes me. I am like a
ghost just observing things. I look across Dales avenue standing in front of the
Community Center, to see two grocery stores that used to bleed so much money
from the impoverish residents of this housing project. They, Vito’s
and Sabeer’s are both abandoned
shells. I can see from across the
street into the building. I can picture
where the cash register and counter used to be. I see the entrance doors; they swung open so often with kids
buying cigarettes for their mothers and fathers. In some cases even worst, they were sent to put in their numbers. I wonder why the city has not demolished these monuments to
exploitation. Then, I chuckle instantly remembering how corrupt public
administration was (and still is) in Jersey City, NJ.
I am seized with a
desire to visit Duncan Projects just in back of Marion Gardens and make my way to
the last courtyard of buildings, slipping back to where a long street leads to
the 20 story buildings of Duncan. Beyond the tall fence is a highway that converges to the Skyway Bridge spanning the Hackensack river over to Newark.
Before me are huge mounds of black coal and small mounds of the
dirt. They provide a vista from which
you can look down into a strange new geography. I see a valley of trees with a lingering fog at the foot of them. I know this
is not how things looked when I was there.
I walk by a guy smoking a joint and others dining cowboy style around a
campfire. I see in the distance a woman
lying on her side atop a concrete slab with her arm under her chin as if posing
for a camera shoot. I walk closer and
see she’s in a long gown. Now, I’m approaching with increasing curiosity from
the rear. I come around and face
her. She recognizes me right away. Kenny!
Kenny! You’re back. I look at her.
Her smooth skin is a coffee brown hue. She has a Barbie doll nose and
light-brown eyes. She smiles and I say:
Wanda? inquisitively. She bounces
her head in and out, indicating yes. Wanda,
this is perfect, look come with me, okay? Lets go to Duncan? Outside
myself, I am aware that the city is coming to life; the day is dawning and that
I want her. I take her chin in my hands
and push my tongue in her mouth, kissing her passionately. She responds and we
kiss longingly, then part lips. I ask her
again to go with me. I know its because I feel alone and directionless. Knowing, I am just walking around seeing
things without any reason why. She almost
says: Okay, but hesitates, and shakes her head in dissent. I always let you do this Kenny, you just come here outta nowhere, then kiss me. And now you
want me to go to Duncan? I can’t. I
can see from outside myself, I am standing there with her still on her side, I
am standing upright, my hands on her shoulders. I know she won’t leave. I
hear everything picking up, the airy roar of all the cars speeding down the
Holland tunnel, the sound of foghorns from tugboats on the Hudson river, and construction teams driving pylons, I remember P.S. 23 and can see kids hurrying into the doors of the school on Romaine Ave.
The whole city is coming to life, I feel lost, defeated, thinking: why did I
come back? In an instance I awake.
Ken Wais 11/26/00