Clinton, South Carolina, Thursday, March 26, 2020, 11:29 a.m.

Last night I dreamed in peaceful sleep of shady summertime of old dogs, and children, and watermelon wine. – Tom T. Hall

I wish.

Two nights ago, I dreamed I was covering a soccer match, and players started stopping in their tracks and falling unconscious to the ground. It was reminiscent of the gas-spewing planes closing in on Fort Knox in the James Bond movie Goldfinger.

Last night I had another vivid dream, but I didn’t begin this column soon enough, and it has eluded me. Dreams are that way. Thing is, I don’t normally have dreams, and the fact that I now do every night is disconcerting. It makes me dread going to sleep. The dreams aren’t nightmares. They are matter-of-fact and dispassionate. They often involve people and places I haven’t thought of in years.

Scenes change. I walk out of Clinton High School and drive a car I had 30 years ago down Duval Street in Key West, Florida. I am also aware that I am dreaming, which may be why they aren’t frightening.

What they have in common with the conscious is that I can’t control them. I don’t try. I’m just there for the ride. The viewpoint is my eyes, but I am no more than an observer.

Life is out of control, but I am not careening.

 

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