Dream Dodger

When my subconscious mind attempts to determine my fate

Back when I was in my 30's, I had a dream. In my dream, I was hovering in the air inside a room. I was facing down toward a bed. In the bed, was myself, looking pale, gaunt, and unconscious. Two men sat at the bedside. One of the men said "It's a shame, he was so YOUNG!" The other man responded "Well... he wasn't THAT young. 52 is not really young." That number lingered in the air with the floating version of myself. In the years since I experienced that dream, I have contemplated what it meant to have such a distinct reference to my own death. And now that I am 52, I of course have a latent fear that it will come to fruition.

Me, in my 30’s, being contemplated by Keith Morris at Flatstock 2 in Austin, TX

Well, here I am, in the home stretch of my 52nd year, and I'm still alive! I admit, I have not always been thinking about the dream, that would have made for a terrible year. It is in the back of my mind, however, like the amount I am contributing to my 401k. A nagging feeling like I should be doing more, because the time for doing is dwindling.

Which brings me to one of the joys of aging, the random, strange pains. Most of the time they emanate from my back, and there is no mystery there. My back is fucked. Sometimes, however, I feel a shooting pain in my temple, or a dull ache in my chest, and I calmly think to myself "oh, here it is." The aneurysm, the heart attack, right on cue. I am of age. The tranquility of these thoughts is new. I used to freak out when a strange pain occurred. Now I just observe with something akin to acceptance.

I guess to some people, I would be dying young if the prophecy of my dream were to be realized. I don't feel young though. There was a distinct shift from feeling young when I entered my 50's. A perfect storm of pandemic isolation, an explosive herniated disc in my back, and a distinct shift in metabolism that has progressively aged me. The grey hair has multiplied rapidly, my umvelt has started waning.

In my worst moments, I think... maybe it is just better to die now. Shit's only going to get worse. When my sexagenarian siblings (actually one is technically septuagenarian now) tell me they wish they were my age, how should that make me feel? (Yes, I am the "baby". The last gasp of responsibility for my beleaguered parents.) If they long to be my age, how much worse could it be to be theirs?

I am not one to coax the inevitable before it's time, however! I love life and despite the return of "the long dark" here in the PNW, I wake up each morning with at least a modicum of joi de vivre. (After the coffee kicks in) As for the dream... it was perhaps just my brain creating a random narrative. Maybe 52 was not the number that was said. Maybe I am remembering it wrong, and the body in the bed wasn't me. Maybe I shouldn't give such credence to dreams.

In any case, here's one of my favorite Sebadoh songs. Bake Sale is one of those albums I have clung to since first listen. Lou Barlow's songs have always struck a chord with me. Music helps soften the pain of knowing that on my 53rd birthday, my country will hold a presidential election that could once again put us on a darker path. Such is the curse of having a birthday in early November, occasionally it coincides with a critical referendum.

It might make me wish for dreams to come true.