FOREWORD: For a long time I’ve been interested in Lucid Dreaming, a sleep-state in which it’s possible to control your dreams. This is real. According to different sources, the first step toward becoming God each night is to consistently record, in detail, the plot that unfolds in your head. By recording dreams, it becomes evident that Dreamland is visited each and every night, just its colors and contours and characters sometimes aren’t remembered without proper mind training. Below is one such record on my path to James-Bond-Hugh-Hefner-Indian-Jones-type dreams. Hopefully one day I’ll think up a plot first, then dream it later.
“We are asleep. Our life is a dream. But we wake up, sometimes, just enough to know that we are dreaming.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosopher
LAST NIGHT’S DREAM: (Blumenau, Brazil) My old high school basketball team and I were in an unfamiliar gym with green bleachers. We were the home team. My parents, classmates, and other familiar faces from my small town were projecting muted cheers. Their mouths moved and they jumped to their feet during tense moments, gripping their cheeks in hands and waiting in a ghostly silence during free-throws. My parents sat in the middle area of the bleachers, side-by-side, a little less animated than the rest.
Neither team was playing well, which is perhaps why the game lingered on in overtimes. It felt—in the tiredness that feels so real in dreams—to be a double or triple overtime game. Suddenly, the crowd rose and left en masse. Both teams stopped to watch them walk away. When I asked my parents why they said it was just too long. They wanted eat something.
Next I was on an unfamiliar street with restaurants that paralleled a wide river. Both banks were exact replicas of each other. The storefronts were neon like circus shows and illuminated Ferris wheels spun not too far away, on both sides. Neither feeling lost nor searching for my parents, I walked, observed passerbys, some with cotton candy, and felt slightly embarrassed for not making my shots in the earlier game.
Without reason, on the same boulevard, I sprinted, then threw myself into the air as if launching onto a Slippery Slide. This moment was in slow-motion. At first I fell but just before hitting the cement I gradually floated upward until I was flying. With difficulty I controlled my movements as others watched in shock. As if watching myself in third-person, I heard murmured question-and-answer comments from rooftops, “Why doesn’t he fly higher?” and “He doesn’t know how.” Soon I was flying over a gigantic city that looked like London, not as Superman or a bird, but wobbly like a bubble in a semi-upright position. This seemed to last for hours.
The next scene was inside a kitchen, the boards had spaces between them and all the windows and doors were without covers, just squares cut into the wall, like a stilted house in the Amazon. Two men, a stranger and a police officer in tactical gear, shuffled about. I was not present. The stranger offered macaroni-and-cheese to the officer; the officer refused, picking up objects and in general creating a tense situation. Finally, he asked, “Where is your friend?”—referring to me. The stranger attended the boiling water in silence without looking up. Suddenly, through the kitchen window there was a dot in the sky, a balloon-like object in the distance that moved in rapid and sporadic shifts. I immediately recognized this to be me. The officer ran out of the room.
I crash landed in a lake where some Yoda-like creature waited at the shore. The creature said something, I responded, but none of this seemed important until policemen appeared at the opposite shore, aggressively running around the water’s edge toward me as I waded through the murky water. The creature told me to run and pointed toward the forest. Before entering the woods I felt a pinch on my neck. A tranquilizer dart. I remember feeling the textured bark of a tree as I wondered why this was happening.
I awoke to find friends—Aaron Bell from The Great Hitchhiking Race, other race participants, and the girl who visited me in Ecuador, Genest—surrounding me on a lonely stretch of desert highway. Their faces were in a circle above me as if I were laying on my back. I told them I had been sentenced to two years in prison for flying. They accepted this fact without emotion, but still didn’t believe I could fly. They wanted to see.
Several times I belly-flopped on the asphalt without success. I felt no pain. On another attempt I floated slightly upward, to the height of a basketball hoop, then fell upright on my feet. However, I had ran so far away for the launch that they didn’t see this take place. Upon returning to the group I said, “I can’t, I’m nervous.” From here on the dream became progressively more complicated, something about touching a church’s inside ceiling, some indecipherable conversations, and lots of sunshine.
THIS MORNING’S REALITY: A voice awoke me at 6:30am. This time it was a real officer—the night before I was given a bed in the military police’s dormitory—telling me breakfast was ready, that I should grab the bread, cheese, and coffee soon because “By 7:00am it’s usually gone.” Still in a dream-state, I mumbled a response that I later wondered was in Portuguese or English, slept another ten minutes hoping to fly again, dressed, cleaned my face, then went to drink coffee in the cafeteria surrounded by men who registered their day’s bullets on a clipboard, pistols locked in safety position on the table.