[austintorn@aol.com]

Phantasmagoria

Part 1

Each morning as I awake I can just barely remember her. Even as I rub my eyes she becomes but a shadowy recollection, although a most pleasant one, as my day begins anew. I don’t even know her name, yet I see her almost every night. All I know is that I love her dearly, for how could I not?—I’ve created her in the most perfect, loving image that I could imagine. She is a dream. As the morning wears on she is still with me, a faint glimmer of being in my heart, a mere shadow of the love I felt at daybreak. As the day grows bright into noon my remembrance of her dims into vagueness. By late afternoon she is but a wisp of near nothingness; yet, I still can feel her presence—a joyous fulfillment—as if she had somehow snuggled into my being and merged into me. But, who is she?

Well, she seems to be every woman I’ve ever known, yet none in particular. Even now I am having trouble rebuilding her image. If only I had a clear picture—it all seems so hazy now—if only I could remember. Somehow I must see her distinctly, and more importantly, remember the vision. But how can I become alert, awake, and sober of thought in a dream?

Alas, several nights flew by and I did not dream of her; but, then, finally, on one intoxicatingly drowsy night, I saw her again—and I lived and loved with her as if there were no tomorrow; however, all too soon the morrow broke, and she waned, lost to me again—although she was so vivid, at first, she faded into evanescence. This time, though, I managed to write down her description, and by that evening that depiction was about all I had left.

Although the image had withered fast, I was now able to resurrect her, using my hasty description, even though it was made with an all too sleepy hand. For awhile I could capture her as such, but again her image faded all too quickly.

Many thoughts ran through my head the next night, turning into ghostly visions and nonsensical hallucinations of a most illogical character; that is, I was dreaming, but she was not in any of the scenes. If only I could bring some order and sense into the noisy mosaic of my random and wandering thoughts. Other thoughts waited in the wings for their appearance on the stage of the absurd, and they soon tumbled and stumbled across the dream scene, had their moment, then passed on into oblivion, apparently never to return. Of course, I saw them all pass, but I was only a paralyzed spectator, and, since a good part of my mind was out of it, I noted nothing unusual in the chaos and therefore had believed it all to be quite real and normal.

The weeks crawled by, and I don’t believe that I saw her, but if I did then I must have just as soon forgotten her, but somehow our love seemed to live on, but only as an idea painted in me, and so our love life was practically non existent. Then I had a great idea: if she wasn’t going to show up, then why couldn’t I just conjure her up! Yes! I’ve been a fool all of these days—why didn’t I think of this before?

I prepared myself well, and it took several days of practice: I went to bed relaxed, after a warm bath, and thus quite easily discarded the worries of the day. Then I reviewed the script in my mind, going over it and over it many times. I repeated to myself one thousand times: “Control your dream. The dream images are not real although they seem to be so. You can do anything in your dream; you can control it. It is only a dream. Tell yourself therein that it is only a dream. Grasp the idea and become lucid. You can do anything in your dreams—you can go anywhere, see anyone, have anything—if you can only realize that it is a dream and then direct the dream accordingly.” And so forth, I said such things, over and over and over and over.

I repeated the words while I tried to picture the most utter and complete blackness—and it was there that I etched the words rehearsed above so that they would remain there as a message to me after I slept—to be received by my normally unbelieving dream self, that drowsy mind that never questions the illogical, that mind that sees and interprets every dream literally because it all does seem so real—because the model of reality used in dreams is the same exact model used when we are awake.

I looked forward to the night with much anticipation. I wondered if dream images were really sharp and distinct, or if they were vague, as they seem in remembrance. Well, soon I would know.

“It is only a dream… “ These were the last words that I heard before drifting off into that fabricated nether world in which I hoped to script, direct, produce, and star in any story that I could dream up. And there, in my dream, the etched thought “that I was dreaming” did indeed occur to me. What a revelation it was! What a realization! Still, it seemed to be so far-fetched and so amazing that I refused to believe it at the time. Damn! I was so close.

Why didn’t I believe it? Because everything in my dream was clear and sharp and colorful like a perfect image of reality itself in three dimensions—an exact match to reality itself, a genuine reconstruction, a true virtual reality!

The next night I was again haunted by the echoing thought that “I was dreaming”. I still wasn’t convinced, but at least I took some cautious control, anyway, so that I could try an experiment: I went down to the kitchen in my dream and poured some milk on the floor, much as it pained me to do so. As soon as I woke up the next morning I rushed down to the kitchen and saw that the floor was clean! This gave me confidence. I was finally making some progress in dream awareness and control. I was learning to detect the dream state.

The following night I dreamt again, realized that it was a dream, and again took control. This time I rearranged all of the wonderful items that were on my bedside table, but, of course, when I woke up, they were still untouched, having remained in their original positions.

I was getting close, for I was starting to believe. I had to be careful though, before I did crazy things in my dreams, for one must be absolutely convinced beyond certainty that a dream is indeed a dream—lest one fall into harm or become inhibited out of fear of breaking laws or dying.

The next night in my dream I wondered again “if I was dreaming” when I was flying down the street about twenty feet in the air. At last the logical portion of my brain fully “awoke” and said to me, “You are flying down the street twenty feet off the ground; this is impossible and ridiculous; therefore this must be a dream!” So, for the first time ever I was thoroughly and utterly convinced to the core of my being that I was dreaming. Now I could begin some serious research.

Yes, I was actually there in my next dream, living it and observing it all at the same time. Instead of flying straight to Hawaii, I first wanted to inspect my surrounding—to minutely analyze the dream model and images. So, I made a conscious and definite effort to look directly at everything in the scene. As I flew through my neighborhood I looked closely at each house, and I saw that every part was perfectly in place: every shingle and nail, every blade of grass distinct, every leaf and branch vivid; in fact, every single detail, including color, was identical to that of real life and was indistinguishable from it! What a discovery this was!

I flew high and low. The reconstruction of my street was perfect—no wonder that dreams seem so real, for they practically are. Of course, dreams also seem hazy, but that’s only because the recollection itself grows hazy over time; but, I’ve found that, if you write your dreams down upon awakening, you will find later, upon reading about them, that they will remain vivid and can be fully recalled.

And so it was, that after many months of such patience, discipline, and use of dream notes, I was able to do whatever I wished in my dreams: I traveled; I ate delicious food (and gained no calories from it); I met wonderful people; I even formed plays and movies in which each player performed totally in character (many were quite unlike my own character; yet all their performances must have from my own hidden talent), and scene after desired scene rolled by in 3-D Cinemascope and Technicolor.

I could now do anything that a God could do; for example, I invented and ran Universes; but, now it was time to find her—the phantom woman who had initiated my dream quest in the first place. She came easily into my vision and I saw her clearly for the first time. She was the perfect woman—she was my dream girl! I saw her plainly; somehow I knew her; I loved her; for, she was made for me. She was a composite of all the women that I had known and loved, plus all that my my heart’s ideal had molded into being. Why should I ever wake?

Why indeed. Reality is harsh, and perhaps I had just stumbled onto Heaven. Well, one must wake to live—to make one’s dreams come true for real, and to gain input for further dreams, which, in turn, will give even more life upon awakening. And so it was that I found the perfect woman in real life, Cynthia, when my dreams took wing, but, that’s another story.

Yes, we all have to sleep, and we must do so every night; so why waste it? It is Heaven on earth, it is the perfect world—one in which no debts are owed, where infinite power awaits, where you can have all that the mythical afterlife has to offer. Try it. See you in my dreams!