In a dream, I touched my Dad
Dream
The other night I had a dream. When I go to sleep, I half wish that Dad’s ghost might visit me, knowing that I’d have to surrender to the fear of other worldliness. But each night I brace myself all the same. I expect him to appear at the window.
Well, the other night he did – in a dream. He was wearing shorts and an old t-shirt. I approached the window where he was mooching around. I was so happy to see him. The window and walls dissolved away and I put my hand on his shoulders, half aware that this was a dream and he may disappear. I was surprised that I could feel his skin. I wanted to massage his shoulders.
Dad gave me a strange look. He too, was very happy to see me and wanted to talk about all the things that I’d been doing since he went. But there was reservation. Dad had the air of someone who “shouldn’t be doing this.” I understood his body language immediately. He didn’t want me to live in futile hope of an other-worldly return and yet – he did want me to know that he still exists. Somewhere. But he walked away without explaining any of this. Or even speaking.
A cassette tape recording
I was driving Dad’s car through Mt Lawley the other day, playing Dad’s jam tape. He recorded himself singing Elvis songs with an old tape recorder. But what was interesting was the space between each song. As each song finished, I turned up the cassette recorder and I could hear dad breathing and moving objects around in his singing room. For these few seconds, beyond the white noise and tape hiss, Dad was a living, breathing entity – one who could shuffle papers around and play guitar.
Days Later I re-recorded (digitised) what I heard on tape for use in a song by Dead Eddy. On my digital recorder, his cassette came in as track 11 of 17 separate recordings. Now, it’s only a little thing and it seems very far fetched, but when I tried to play the mp3 file into my computer, that particular file was corrupt. Out of the 17 separate recordings, only one, track 11 . . . “Dad” – was unable to be played.
Two ways to read this.
1. Most probably a coincidence.
2. Not a coincidence
If 2, then Dad – or someone / thing – is hindering my creative desire to resurrect the insignificant moments in dad’s life which have now become profoundly significant.
Dad-ness
I remember reading about how Jung once said that there is a little artist inside our heads – painting everything that we see. It’s not the thing that we see, but the painting. That – for want of a better word – is our reality.
I agree with Carl. And, I’d go so far as to say that we ar all constructions reconstructed in another’s mind. Dad was a different person to me than he was to Mum, sister Sue, his friends. Each person constructed him in their mind. Painted him, if you will, on their inner canvas. It stands to follow then that none of us are real – we are only the constructions of another’s point of view.
So – my Dad (or Dad-ness) – even though he is physically not here – still exists on my inner canvas. In that sense alone – he isn’t really dead at all. I’m not denying the corporeal reality. I know his body is in a coffin. Underground.
I just think that – if we are all just really constructions in the minds of others – then, in a sense, we are all immortal. None of us will die – so long as the others always remember.
