OTHER PEOPLES’ DREAMS

It has been said that “No one is interested in other peoples’ dreams”, and though no doubt generally true, it is not so in Plaz-Mong. For in Plaz-Mong the collective unconscious behaves in a peculiar way such that each and every night, while sound asleep, everyone in town is having another person’s dreams.

It all started six years ago, after a glorious meteor shower. The night sky was lit up like no one had ever seen, and shooting stars were going off like fireworks. The word spread quickly, and soon the whole town was out of doors, taking in the spectacle.

That night Tinn-Mo Timm had a dream that he found somewhat disturbing. It was as real as life, and its resonance stayed with him well into the following day. His spirit was troubled, so he decided to share his dream with his friend Jar-Ed.

He described the scene and the girl in the dream, down to the finest detail. Nothing much happened in the dream; it was just a very vivid image of a pretty young girl, standing near a brook. She reached out her hand and said quietly, “Why didn’t you help me?”

When Tinn-Mo had finished he noticed that Jar-Ed’s eyes were moist – he was crying. “Tinn-Mo” he said, “you just described my sister. You never met her. She’s dead. I’ve been having that dream every night for three years. Last night was the first night I didn’t. I don’t know how it could be that you had my dream, but you did.”

The following night Jar-Ed had a dream he found quite amusing. He was crawling through an obstacle course, tracer rounds whizzing over his head. He didn’t seem to be in actual combat or very real danger, just training, maybe military boot camp. Someone else, on the ground immediately behind him, called out to him “Hey Jar-Ed”, then blurted out a quick one-liner. Jar-Ed cracked up, lying face down in the dirt as flares lit up the night sky above him. Suddenly he gathered his wits and scrambled forward as the sergeant bellowed on the bullhorn ”Move it soldier, or you’ll get your sorry ass killed!”.

That morning at breakfast Jar-Ed recounted his dream. His father listened, his interest piqued, and when the story was finished said “Sounds a lot like my old army buddy, Chess. Man, I haven’t thought about him in ages, but it sure sounds like Chess. He was always pulling shit like that. That was one of his favorite jokes too, and he told it over and over. He wanted to be a professional comic, and I think he wrote that one himself. Where’d you ever hear that joke?”

“I never did.” said Jar-Ed, “Not that I recall. Not until last night, in my dream.”

“That’s too weird.” said Jar-Ed’s dad. “How could you dream about my old buddy, and a joke you never heard…? …Weird.”

Little by little, through dozens of similar incidents, the people of Plaz-Mong came to the realization that they were all having each others’ dreams. Night upon night, childhood memories, images of loved ones old friends and new objects of carnal desire, the angst of past traumas or impending trials, endless loopingloopinglooping variations on a bungled chess opening, an insipid song heard one too many times that won’t quit playing, jumbled fragments of trivial conversation and routine activities from the working day coalesced into mildly disturbing, amusing, or frustrating scenes unfolding in familiar school rooms, impossible Escher-esque buildings, and labyrinthine streets and alleys. All the stuff of waking life, fractured, fragmented, distorted and reconfigured for some mysterious purpose of the subconscious, swirled and spun together like so much dirty linen in a nocturnal washing machine of the mind.

In short, a typical night of dreaming, not much different than most - save for this one salient point. All of it - every stitch – was someone else’s laundry.

One very bright young girl, burdened with many sad dreams that she didn’t understand, asked if she might tell them to everyone. She would like this weight to be lifted, and these dreams might mean something important to someone else. When the girl had finished recounting her dreams of the past week, Urk-Shed spoke up and said quietly “Miss, you don’t know me, but I’d say those are my dreams you been having. Thank you for speaking, and giving them back to me.”

Before long a group had formed, and soon all the people of Plaz-Mong were meeting every Saturday morning for the Sharing of Dreams.

Several people went out of their way to nurture the ability to recall their dreams, often waking several times during the night and meticulously transcribing them. You never know what seemingly trivial detail might be especially relevant or significant, and they took this new responsibility in the community to heart.

There were others who felt most uncomfortable with what amounted to invasion of privacy – their own and others’ – no matter how unintentional, and were disinclined to either share or claim. They only listened, in case something were to speak to them.

There were of course embarrassing moments, but no one was teased or laughed at. Everyone realized they were all in the same boat, equally vulnerable, and The Sharing of Dreams was always carried out in an atmosphere of kindness and mutual respect - and is to this day.

It has been said that “No one is interested in other peoples’ dreams”. Though, generally speaking, that is certainly true, it is not so in Plaz-Mong. The people of Plaz-Mong are interested – very interested - in everybody’s dreams. And most of them would probably say it’s better to have someone else’s dreams than none at all.