A couple of people asked me recently if I've dreamed in Spanish, my second language. The answer: I'm not sure. I know I have nights of dream-filled sleep, but for the most part hardly any of it returns to waking life with me apart from vague images and sensations. It's a genuine occasion when I return with something clear, usually the product of a dream that's especially intense or strange in some way. Which is what happened about five nights back: a kind of dream I've had a handful of times in this life of mine, featuring she who is The One. Mate, partner, true sweetheart -- whatever description applies.
They're lovely dreams, those few that have featured that woman, leaving me pleased for having experienced them, not bothered that they're only dreams and so disappear when my real life eyes open. They're sweet, intimate, emotionally profound. And fun. I have no memory of who she is/was, have no idea if it's always been the same individual or someone different every time. Ni puta idea, as some Spanish friends might put it. And it doesn't matter. They're dreams, the rules of waking life don't apply.
I also, every once in a long, long while, experience dreams that are not so freakin' pleasant. Not very pleasant at all. Unpleasant, really, even nasty, nightmarish. Or just not much fun, and intense enough that they wake me. In that case, I turn on the light, get up or grab a book, start reading. I don't try to hold on to them, make no effort to remember details. It's fine with me if they disappear from the memory banks. And they do.
I love dreams, these adventures that kick in when we check out of real life for a few hours. And it would be okay with me if I remembered more of them. But I'm not so disturbed by not remembering that I'm willing to make myself jump through the various hoops that pass as methods to improve dream recall. I went through a period when I'd turn on the light and make notes once I found myself awake in the wee hours with fresh details of nocturnal hijinks galloping through my teeny brain. Man, I hated that. By the time I'd finished scribbling everything down -- in hideous, rushed, indecipherable handwriting -- I'd be too wide awake to slip back off to sleep. Far, far too high a price to pay -- 'cause, frankly, I love getting good sleep much more than I love waking up from it remembering whatever the hell went on while the real-life lights were out.