I had a vivid dream last week, but hesitated to blog about it, because it seemed strange. But dreams are strange. The rational mind takes a break, and the irrational mind takes charge. When I was in first grade, I was plagued by nightmares. I used to dream that my teacher was a fire-breathing human, or what in Dungeon Crawl is termed a Draconian--half-man, half-dragon. Night terrors scared me until I told my father about them, and he gave me advice. He said that nothing in the world could touch me. He and my mother would protect me, no matter what. Anything imagined was just that, imagination. It was not real. The junk on television or in books was not real. They were just ideas. Somehow, I learned how to sleep without having any nightmares. If something scary arose during a dream, I would smile in my dream and say, "Ha-ha, you're not real! And I get to choose what I dream, so I'm not going to dream about you!" However, this did have an undesirable side-effect--I began to forget most of my dreams. Today, a remembered dream is a rare event that happens once a year at most.
As a young man in my twenties, I had a handful of remembered dreams. Due to reading many of Anne Rice's earlier books, I dreamed a fair amount about vampires, and had dreams where a monster or killer was getting ready to do me in. Sometimes I tried to move, but found that I was paralyzed, and wondered why I could not move. I remember trying to shout for help and not being able to talk. I even tried whispering, but could not even do that. I tried to run or hide, but my body would not obey my commands. My paralysis frightened and confused me even more. I read later that during the REM stage, many of the muscles are in fact paralyzed, with the exception of the pupils and the involuntary muscles. I still do not understand why I could not move inside the dream, however. In dreams, one should be able to do anything one wants.
Last week, I dreamed that I was a guest in a friend's house. A married couple was lodged just down the hall from me. The wife discovered that I was a medical professional and decided she needed my assistance. She told me she was infected by a rare African virus that caused chronic constipation. Would I be so kind as to perform an enema? I refused, out of concern for what her husband might say. Besides, enemas are not the first line of treatment for constipation anymore. They were more common in the past, but today, revised notions of modesty have made the practice unpopular. A superior treatment would be a laxative of some kind, I advised. Besides, I've never performed an enema.
She left my room, "undeterred" in more ways than one. A few minutes later, she returned with her husband in tow. He repeated the request and insisted it was OK by him, because he was tired of performing the procedure himself, and felt like I would do a more professional job. Without further ado, the wife stripped off her dress and panties and prostrated herself on a couch, awaiting treatment. The husband handed me the enema kit and said, "Go to it, sport."
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