“In dreams, I walk with you. In dreams, I talk to you.” –Roy Orbison
The imperialistic establishment of the one-man Republic of Bub planted a definitive, exclamation point of a flag by encroaching into Daddy Dreamland last night.
Yes, the very last true personal space available to me was dominated by not one, but two nerve-wracking dreams about Bub. I suspect they won’t be the last.
The first was a pretty obvious rip-off of The Fugitive. I’m not sure how or why, but Bub and I found ourselves on the lam, accused of a crime we didn’t commit. We thought we’d established our innocence and the cops were bringing a copy of the newspaper proclaiming our innocence. So we made our way to the railroad tracks to surrender.
There were police cruisers surrounding the area but no visible officers, just a paperboy stack of newspapers on the ground. Somebody came out and took Bub from me. I walked to the papers and was not on the front page. I thumbed through till I found a picture of myself and my mother. It was a press release for my novel, page 26. I’d been duped, set up by The Man. I’d surrendered my freedom, my collateral, my son, and I was going away. I woke up with that sweaty realization.
The second was kind of Ghostbusters-esque, though with more of a Cloverfield ominous twinge. Yadda yadda yadda, plot plot plot, we end up hiding in a building, a ginormous tin man outside looking to perform ruinous acts upon us. We are no match for him. My brother is trying to work some root into a magic potion as I hold Bub knowing no two-bit sorcery on Earth could stop this Wizard of Oz nightmare. And I awake with that sweaty realization.
I’m not a big over-analyzer of dreams, but these were pretty concrete. Bub needs protection against worldly dangers both seen and unseen. And that makes me Daddy Corleone.
I wonder if it goes both ways. Bub’s been dreaming since birth. Much like a dog, we’ll see him kick or jerk at something far away, yet so close. You have to wonder what (just solely based on his experience and understanding of the world) images could possibly be painting his brainscape. I like to think he’s dreaming about his mother’s tenderness, fikey-shaped clouds and cows jumping over the moon. No tin men, no police entrapment, no fear and no worries. Sweet dreams, young man.