One of those dreams that grabs you and hangs on

Yep. It’s still there. I never (seldom) write about dreams. They are, after all, but dreams.

But this one…this one won’t let go.

French postcard

Vintage French postcard showing a fantasy scene of three nude women and a male pilot on a flying machine. Art by Mastroianni. Allegoria series.

It was a college dream. I haven’t had one for years and years. College is so…yesterday.

But there I was. I was young—as young as everyone else. But it seemed to be a college of the future, as future tech lay around. There were unfamiliar things. And a lot of young people milling around in strange rooms. Like college.

Truth is, I think the dream was about youth. It was about how your body, when you’re young, does what you want it to do, and you can pretty much do anything with it. It was about how beautiful young women are, how strong and fearless they can be. And young men, I guess, are pretty much the same, except that I look at them differently. Which is not really the point here.

Violet the Pilot by Steve Breen

Book cover from a book voted one of the most empowering for young women.

I won’t go into the futuristic violin I knew I’d have to figure out in my studies (had trouble even getting the case open). Or the weird Rube Goldberg setup my classmates had constructed to deliver intoxicating substances of one kind or another. What captures and holds me now is the image of two people, a young woman and a young man, who were pirouetting around in a flying unicycle contraption, not too different from a Da Vinci sketch, but taller, much taller. And actually capable of human-powered flight, which I don’t think Da Vinci prototypes have been able to accomplish.

The woman had short blonde hair. The man had dark hair.

Flying machine, Da Vinci

Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous flying machine, never shown to be able to fly.

They were dressed maybe as dancers, or were maybe nude. They were so far above me that I couldn’t be certain. They floated to the ceiling of a huge room, and then steered themselves toward an opening to the outside. Outside was the outside; I was a little worried about what might happen to them when exposed to the vicissitudes of nature, such as wind, rain, etc. But I was concerned in general because I was unaware of the tech they used.

What were those tall, spindly, flying unicycle things? Was this the latest trend in college high jinks? Funny thing is, I knew that I could master it. I could be that guy up there, following the beautiful girl across the high ceiling. I found myself wanting to figure out how to do it, maybe asking the young blonde woman above for lessons.

That’s it, really. The substance of the dream, I mean. The idea that I could master something new and physical is not something I’ve experienced recently. It is quite probably the leitmotif of the entire performance that occurred in my head last night, and, as with Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, may have been inspired by an undigested piece of meat.

And it resonates in other ways: youth is so precious, so fleeting, and so if you’ve got it, please know how lucky you are. It seems such a specious advice—an older guy telling you to enjoy it. But really, when I think back, I did not enjoy it enough. I did not appreciate enough the absolute physical pinnacle that was my gift. And how many people, disabled or in pain, never get the chance to experience it at all. I was a fool, and so now am cursed with this foolish dream, following me around for a while.

Maybe longer than a while. I’m still deriving meaning from it. I’ll be in touch if that goes anywhere. Meanwhile, good luck with your own dreams!

 

KJC dingbat-thumbnail

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About Keith Croes

Nice to meet you. Thanks for dropping by.

Posted on December 28, 2015, in Autobiographical, Cultural observations, Dreams, emotions, fantasy, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Keith, This reminds me of Artistic and Inventive Mind: Creative Leonardo da Vinci -http://segmation.com/blog/2015/12/29/leonardo-da-vinci-2/

    Liked by 1 person

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