For three nights in a row, I’ve dreamed about 45 caliber pistols, and for three nights in a row I’ve dreamed of losing those 45’s. I left one in a restaurant, one disappeared from my coat pocket, and the last seemed to have been lost to another dimension. I set it down on a table, turned my head to look outside, and when I looked down a second or two later, voila, disappeared.
I’m not a believer in Freud’s gun is another word for …, well, you know. I do not own a handgun. I haven’t been seriously thinking of buying one. I have not been watching gangster pictures. The guns appear. I’m in a city. I’m not being chased. Then they are gone. Then I do become anxious. I look round. I stand up and search. I must find my 45. I awaken.
Of course, maybe they’re a match for the other dreams that have been visiting me with great frequency; half a dozen of these in a month or so.
I’m late. I’m running in cityscapes I do not recognize. Up and down long stone staircases, turning corners into alleys that lead me to boulevards where I know no one. I cannot find my way. I must find my way. I do not recognize landmarks. No one will help. I know this even though I never ask for help. I keep running along brand-new streets. Sometimes I turn a corner, and I have made the journey from day into night. Storefronts blaze with neon lights, but I cannot remember any of them. I run – it’s always running, never walking – until I panic myself awake, and even then, it takes me seconds to understand that I am awake and out of the dream that had been as real as this hand I hold in front of me now.
