" Nightmare, Ever, And Again "

“ Nightmare, Ever, and Again “

( or, ‘Why cannot I simply dream of fond delights, instead of never-ending, bizarre, and hellish dreams, that in my shallow’d sleep, would seek an evil, and prolonged disturbance’)

08/01/12

To my very, very dearest friends, and most faithful, loyal readers,

I ask you, dearest friends, from where springs corruptive nightmare, that steals true repose, and makes a mockery of decent sleep?

And while I would gladly side with Scrooge, in that nightmare would soley be the product of, “ a bit of underdone potato,” so that, his statement to Jacob Marley, “ There’s more of gravy than of grave,” would seek to place the blame of resultant nightmare on poorly prepared food, taken just before bed.  I only wish that it were so, and so easy.

Freudians might well argue that nightmare is the product of an unhappy subconscious, that seeks to telegraph its miseried state to the sleeping conscious brain; however, this message is warped, and twisted in a thousand ways, so that, in an attempt by the conscious mind to seek to make some sense of it, often, nightmares, horrific, and gut-wrenching nightmares are the result.

Frankly, dearest friends, on these occasions, which occur more often than they do not, I wish the subconscious would just shut the hell up, close-down for the night, take a mini-vacation, leave town, and change its name.

For—except for a few nightmares that alert the conscious that the body is in peril, or, for example, when the bladder is full, and needs immediate emptying!—the remainder are just punishing, cryptic, and stupidly annoying, besides being genuinely upsetting, and frightening.

And when shallow sleep is punctuated by too frequent nightmare, any chance at restorative repose is chopped up and thrown into a blender.

Funny how, upon my frequent wakenings, when nightmare was the cause, I seem to remember all of them, and they disquiet me. And this further makes sleep patchy.  On many days, I have to have a one or two-hour, ‘lie-down’, to last the evening; but somehow—physically—I pay an enormous price for naps, as I always feel about a hundred times worse, and inevitably must dose up with pain meds to survive another day.

I have no idea why the equation of nightmare + sleep is so all-encompassing, as I have major nightmares most every night, but, my body—by then—does feel better; but, during the day, whenever I nap to NO nightmares, yet, physically, I feel worse !  Why?

Is it the medications?  Or, my faulty disposition?  As the song said, “ Is it turtle soup, or, the mock?” 

I put, then, the question to you, my very dearest friends; should your sleep be too often riled by distressing and evil nightmare, please comment, below, with your kind thoughts on the matter.

In conclusion—though—I would like to address what, among other things, I think our dreams SHOULD be about.  And so, will leave you with a poem on dreams that I submitted as a diary entry on January 8, 2012.  I hope that you may find some enjoyment in it!

Meanwhile, as always, my very, very dearest friends, please know that I think of you so very often, hoping and praying that you are well, and that I love you dearly!

‘Zahc’

 ‘What Should Our Dreams, To Us, Convey...? ‘

I

What should our dreams, to us, convey...? Something no worse

than sight of dewy petals, as from some rosebud burst;
or, some happy, half-remembered bit of childhood verse.
Or like some wind-up circus where-at first-
is seen a pretty lady on a horse, while acrobats and painted clowns rehearse.
Of princely hoards of candies, rare, surrounded with sufficient icy lemonade to quench one's thirst.

III

Conveyed should be the views of fabled past,

Where dashing, charging knights slay all monstrous dragons to the last.

Of banquets in a castle hall, where noble knights and princesses dance a slow pavanne neath roped, candled chandeliers that hang bright overhead, each tied, held fast;
where  heavy, ancient, oakened doors creek on ironed hasp.
The tales of Quest, and rightfully boastful songs by morning's awakening, too quickly fade and pass.

III

Our dreams should reveal the wayward path to a secret garden shown;
with scent of brilliant flowers all unknown,
to mingle with the gentle smell of grass new mown.
A quiet place to which the rancors of a pained, and half-resented day have flown.
A most delightful place, a tonic for all previous sins; a chance to redeem, and to atone.
And...thus forgived, to lie in this magic place, alone.

IV

This gardened spot should with its sheer evanescence sway.
All through the night, all pain forgot, as are the trials of a pain-filled day.
Those mossed, and twisting paths would surly find a way
to some safe pace, where even tired adults can play
to their delight, with unicorns, and other such-like mythic creatures stay;
and, all can as joyous, happy dance through a bright, and cloudless day.

V

Our dreams should be as sacred as an hymn
heard in some vast, and cloistered stained-glassed cathedral, when

choruses of angels lift up their voices, with a merciful and joyous theme within,
that would enthrall a tired, and weary soul, and then
lift it as well to such an holy place, to which a loving

God would descend,
to offer soothing, healing touch, and to all would beckon, " Enter In."

VI

Our dreams thus revealed, should in a voice...a quiet sigh
explain to all who walk but painfully, while though, in shuttered dreams can fly !
And rise like gilded birds, who, soaring ever high
Can hardly see the earth, below, nor indeed anything beneath a brighted sky;
that we-perhaps-could do all things, if only we but try;
could we but overcome our foes, our fears, our pains
that, daily, would confront us with their dissembling lies.

VII

Our fever'd dreams should nightly take us to a place
wherein all past and present ailments race;
far flung from despairing or repressed horror to that space
that knows no limit, off ‘ring cure to that disease which ‘has no face.'
Instead, forgive us, and the mockery of those who cannot understand our souls are banished, ‘till just a trace
of it remains. And we awake, thus chastened, with drying tears upon our face.

VII

Must we awake-instead-garlanded with pain, despair, and longing full arrayed?
For we, too, were young once, and fearless, thinking

ourselves invulnerable, unafraid;
ignoring future ills and sorrows as they came, to leave us reeling and dismayed ?
In base reality, we now awake to find, again, our faces lined with age, with load of care displayed;
Again, the daily loneliness, and dreadful, whoresome pain, is trotted out upon the stage: a one-act scene of misery and deprivation played;
when, in some peaceful, guarded, healing dream, ALL tortures can be waived.

End

I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'