Quarantine dreams or too much time on one’s hands?
The coronavirus recently reappeared in the capital, but once again seems to be on the wane.
Today, dear reader, I have a special treat for you.
As you know, COVID-19 dreams are a thing, many of us have found. And they don’t typically involve being awarded the Nobel Prize in “biochemistry” for being the first to invent a workable cure/vaccine to the contagion. Nothing so simple, or feel good.
So I’ll soon describe a recent dream I had — consider it the subconscious getting the kinks out amid social distancing and quarantines. As an added bonus, I will offer my dream analysis at the end. No peeking please.
That being said, everything eventually has the potential to become a “thing” if you give it enough time and opportunity. After all, if you’re a multi-universalist, you believe there’s another carbon copy of yourself roaming a galaxy on the periphery of the visible universe, also disliking mosquitoes and the Red Sox with an unhealthy passion.
If this grand 13.8 billion-year-old universe we inhabit is just one of, say, 10 to the power of 10 (wish I could type raised numerals), then it’s a statistical certainty that “someone” with your exact genome (or at least the ones that make executive, phenotypical decisions) is roaming another cosmos. Heck, he even has the same name as you. And we all know about the Infinite Monkey Theorem in which a primate randomly banging away on a typewriter (they still use typewriters?) for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type the complete works of Shakespeare. Hope Koko the gorilla is compensated for carpal tunnel.
But back to the COVID dreams.
Psychology Today recently said two such reveries are making the REM rounds. The first involves encountering people who appear to be “clean” but are in fact infected. Think the final scene from Invasion
of the Body Snatchers where Donald Sutherland’s tonsils are prominently on display.
Another variety involve dreams of the pandemic months before the first cases were documented. Too bad these alpha-state prophets didn’t have the temerity a year ago to warn the National Health Commission, the World Health Organization or the Centers for Disease Control. Their names would be household by now if they had.
I for one haven’t had any of the above reveries. But one recently stood out, and was definitely COVID- related. All these months of shutdowns, temp checks, self-isolation and masks sometimes mask deeper anxieties that come unmasked if we were, perchance, to dream.
Such was the case when I found myself deserted on a tropical island with zero chance of rescue. However, I was given three choices, not sure by whom. Perhaps the Milky Way municipal authorities? The New York state government in Albany?
Regardless, they were: 1) Have access on the island to a library containing all the books ever published up until that point, without the Bloom County librarian chasing down overdues with the battle axe (this suggests dreamer is sentimental for days gone by). 2) Have a solarpowered radio (dreamer is curious about the future, afraid of drowning in own thoughts and voice). 3) Have a pet dog (dreamer is an optimist, well read, and will make a luxury treehouse with pup’s wagging tail as applause).
A few conditions were provided. The library included all books in every language ever composed, but no music CDs on lend. The radio was a receiver only, and could not be jerry-rigged to transmit my voice to the outer world. The dog was guaranteed to outlive me, if only by a day, and was immune to mishaps and maladies, including COVID-19 of course.
Other details were provided. I would be guaranteed a healthy life of 50 years on the island, and would remain fixed at an age of my choosing. My first inclination was to choose No 1. After all, I could always patrol the rain forest and find myself a nice, chatty African gray parrot to keep me company.
No, the dream voice said ... The island’s forest has nothing but fruit, honeybees (to pollinate the flora), and earthworms (to bait my hooks). And No, dolphins or lost seals would not be in the shallows to befriend me.
OK, so unless I found a way to converse with bees or night crawlers, I better choose No 3 if I wanted “intelligent” conversations. But then, I got to thinking ... With the radio, I could hear other human voices — talk shows, hourly news, baseball — at will. But ... If I hear of a killer quake hitting my hometown, would I want to hear such tidings, knowing I could not communicate with loved ones or survivors?
After much rumination, I was still undecided. Would I spend all my time listening to baseball while trying to build the perfect Kon Tiki raft, even though I was told rescue was impossible? Or would I more likely stay sane taking walks on the beach with a four-legged friend, who would have to get used to my singing and reciting snippets of poems recalled from my college days?
If I did choose No 3, I would make sure it was a sturdy retriever, or even a Great Dane. After all, I want someone to help me drag palms and reeds out of the undergrowth to my Heyerdahl-inspired workshop.