Aesthetically, my dreams are somewhere in between……..
I used to have really bad nightmares, but recently started taking medication for that so now they’re just super vivid without being absolutely terrifying. Dreams are pretty fascinating, especially since we don’t exactly know why we dream, or even what a dream actually is. Are they DMs from our unhinged and disorderly subconscious, random associations from the day mixed with electrical impulses, or are we just vibing with ethereal spirits as they share their prophetic banter? Who knows, I kinda like the uncertainty of them. We all dream but no one actually understand why. We can’t know everything, and some things will always remain a mystery. I started writing down my dreams in a locked note in my phone. Some of them are pretty gruesome and dark, some of them are cute and silly.
It’s also weird that curbing nightmares without stopping all other dream activity was an unintended side effect for a hypertension drug. Or like how a smoking cessation drug spontaneously treated both seasonal and major depressive episodes in ex-smokers. Pharmaceutical medicine is one of the several things that causes my brain to suddenly fire “error 400” messages, I’ll probably write a post about the list of things my brain just says “nope.” to eventually – ex. the internet. ANYWAY, I finally look forward to sleeping again, and I’m actually getting full-nights of restful sleep. After three years of sleep disturbances, the aesthetic of my dreams has finally shifted from Ari Aster to Wes Anderson and I couldn’t be more thrilled about it.
I’m copy and pasting two dreams into here.
One of them is a psychological thriller, and the other one is super wholesome.
Pre-Medication:
“I woke up (in the dream) at about 4pm to go to work because I had to get to a shift at Applebee’s that started at 6. I had no time to shower, so I immediately started getting ready. I left my bedroom and passed through the kitchen where I found a friend cutting open a fruit, but as soon as he cut it, the pulp began pouring over the countertop and flooding the house. I continued into the bathroom to do my make up but the light bulbs were all burnt out so I couldn’t really see anything. My make up bag was also full of makeup I didn’t know how to use. There was a woman in my kitchen, and she kept asking my family was the definition of “patriotic” meant, and they kept responding with “it means pride” and I tried to correct them but no one heard me.
I got into my car and drove out to Southold. I passed a movie theater playing the Shape of Water. Instead of watching the movie, I pulled over – my head fell backwards and I felt myself disassociate while my brain played the movie in my head. The actual movie didn’t play, but it was replaced by a frightening move about “A schizophrenic woman who went missing.” She was pale, emaciated, and her yellow dress was loosely hanging onto her muddy, brusied body. The camera followed her into a field towards a dilapidated barn, she had sex with a random old man who lived in there and walked out completely un-phased. Her eyes gazed mindlessly into the distance as an unseen narrator reported that “those with this disorder often have sex with unknown, possibly threatening people without considering pregnancy or danger because they feel nothing inside.”
Suddenly I was in the field, not sure if I became the woman or not though. I remembered that I had to get to work so I started walking towards the road. I checked my clock and only an hour had passed since waking up in my dream. While cutting through someone’s lawn, two dogs came out. One of them was playful, the other one was unsure about me. I was worried that the dog was going to attack me so I pressed my body up against the chainlink fence until it eventually backed away and let me pass. I got to the side of the road, realized that my car was gone so I started walking to work. I looked down to see my body covered in mud, my legs were exposed, and I was wearing a yellow dress that was loosely clinging to my small body.
I woke up. “
Post-Medication:
“I was at a cafe with a friend and Noam Chomsky. I don’t remember the friend from my own personal life, but she looked like one of those famous Instagram/TikTok influencers. She had straight dark brown hair, a crop top with cherries on it, and she wore red diamond shaped sunglasses. Noam Chomsky is an absolute legend (and I may only be living in Boston for the odd chance that I might run into him on the Red Line).
This was my first time meeting Noam, so I was 100% star struck but instead of asking about linguistics or political theory – I asked him about his favorite song. He chuckled and said “that’s a difficult question and started talking about the rock music of the 60s and 70s. My friend immediately started talking about that era of music with such passion and confidence. I sat there watching these two go back and forth about the rhythm and style of the music in total amazement. Of course, Noam started taking about the anti-establishment anthems of the Vietnam War-era and my friend smiled in agreement. I found myself feeling a little lost, but I was trying my best to follow the conversation.
After about 20 minutes, Noam said “before I forget, I have something for you, Aimee. He went to give me a slip of paper from his pocket. This was my first time meeting Chomsky so I had no idea what was supposed to be on the paper or what kind of note he had for me. I was overwhelmed by the conversation AND the suspense of getting a note from Chomsky so I started to get antsy. Would it be signed? Is it his email? AHH! Instead of patiently waiting as he continued his search, I reached across the table and booped his nose. I BOOPED NOAM CHOMSKY. My hands immediately flew back down to my sides once I realized what I just did. He slowly lifted his eyes with confusion.
I woke up.”
I was actually really nervous about pressing the “publish” button because I thought you all (y’all) would think I’m weird, but we all dream about bizarre things. We also share similar dreams, like showing up to work without pants on, loosing your teeth in a bathroom sink, falling from a great distance only to scare yourself awake with one huge body tremor, etc – the list goes on and on and on. Dreams are cool – even when they’re kinda terrifying but more so when they’re about nose-booping your favorite linguist/political activist.
Aimee the Ramblin’ Woman 