What are Dreams?

My actual dreams. Yes, I have aspirations—and I am doing my very best to will those into existence: from thought to actuality. But I also dream, and I remember these dreams that I have at night while I sleep. I don’t always remember them, but I do quite often, especially when sleeping flat on my back, with my spine aligned.

I’ve been keeping a dream journal. I started journaling entries of my dream content sometime before the pandemic—it was around the time that I moved to Los Angeles. I think it has been one of the most profound experiences of my life trying to derive meaning from them.

I started reading a lot of Carl Gustav Jung last year, and with a bit of guidance in terms of his theories on how to interpret my own dreams, it has been incredible what I have found. Profound. It is changing my life as well as my outlook on it. I’d love to share some of these dreams with you at some point, in a one on one conversation. I have always enjoyed personal conversations with people. Perhaps I will have the privilege of getting to know you under those circumstances one of these days. In equal measure though, I am so busy with all my aspirations (ironically), that talking about my dreams one on one with a person is a rare privilege for me (should the individual have interest in such subjects) so forgive me if that never happens.

I have turned some of these dreams into art pieces. They become songs or even short works of writing that I share on my Patreon page and on my website. Here is an example of one.

As a beautiful article in Time Magazine pointed out, “Modern psychologists and neurologists, armed with imaging equipment including PET scans and MRIs, have taken things to a deeper and more technical level, speculating that dreaming is the brain’s way of dumping excess data, consolidating important information, keeping us alert to danger and more.”

This may also be true. Stranger yet still: all of these notions could be true.

Regardless of your current outlook on dreams: a vast majority of the population have the exact same type of dreams: flying, teeth falling out, being back in school taking an exam, driving a car, being chased by animals, being naked in a public space in front of people, not wearing pants, and so forth.

I find Jung’s theory for this correlation, to be the most interesting of the lot. He speculates that the portions of the brain responsible for dreaming predate written language and deals and communicates in symbols. A portion of our cerebral cortex, called Wernicke's area and Broca’s area (slightly behind and in front of the ears, approximately), is responsible for language: the use of language and the comprehension of it. The cerebral cortex, from which these two regions are a part of, are the most recent evolutionary addition to our brain structure.

Jung’s theory continues that the older portions of the brain, such as the cerebral cortex, the hippocampus, the limbic system, the amygdala, and so forth, provide us with a symbolic and emotional compensatory monologue—a monologue without words: symbols and metaphors using memories and the rich construct of human experience that we all contain in an area called the collective unconscious. Think of the collective unconscious as something akin to—instinct—yet different and unique. It is a collection, a pool of symbols and meaning and archetypes throughout our continued development as a species.

However, his largest contribution was the idea of compensation—that our dreams are often (but not always) compensatory to our conscious waking life. He illustrates this notion, often, in many of his essays, using experiences with his clients. For the sake of brevity, I will use one such experience that can be found in this article: (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4217604/)

“Jung was seeing a patient, who was a highly intelligent woman. Jung’s analysis with her dream went well at first, but after a while he got stuck with the interpretation and noticed a shallowness in the dialogue with the analysand. Jung decided to communicate this to the patient. He then had a dream the night before he was to meet with her again. The dream is as follows:

I was walking down a highway through a valley in late-afternoon sunlight. To my right was a steep hill. At its top stood a castle, and on the highest tower there was a woman sitting on a kind of balustrade. In order to see her properly, I had to bend my head far back. I awoke with a crick in the back of my neck. Even in the dream I had recognized the woman as my patient.

The interpretation of the dream was immediate and crystal clear to Jung: if in the dream he had to look up at the woman, his analysand, then in waking life Jung had probably been looking down on her both intellectually and morally, as according to Jung, ‘“dreams are, after all, compensations for the conscious attitude”’. Jung shared his dream and interpretation of it with the patient and it produced an immediate positive change in the effect of her treatment thereafter.”

It is a deeply fascinating rabbit hole of curiosities. However, please, “you don’t have to take my word for it,” as Lavar Burton would say.

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A Hotel Room Inside My Head

Painting by Edward Hopper

A Hotel Room Inside My Head

By Michael Patrick Vitale

There is a hotel room inside my head. It does not demand attention of its own adornments. It is not flashy, and because of this, its occupants might not spare their attention towards whether or not there is a mini bar, or a large television with multiple channels, a well-upholstered couch, the finest of wallpaper, or the most elegant of lighting apparatus and lamps and other assorted furniture. None of these things are the focal point for me, at the very least. I can’t speak for everyone else present—well, I suppose I could, but I will not out of my own misguided principle. I am there for music.

There is a concert to be had by everyone present at this event, in a hotel room, inside my head. A very intimate concert. In fact, I am one of the artists scheduled to perform on this very lovely day, in a hotel room, inside my head. I never do perform though. Nor does the headliner. The very first artist, a duo, is scheduled to perform. They are the only people who actually play any music, and they do so, criss-cross applesauce from the humble elevation of carpeted floor, adjacent and in front of a King-sized bed. They play music that is inspired and unique and quirky and endearing. It speaks of their heart and soul, and everyone present can feel this. I recognize and admire all of these traits from my perch on top of the bed, in the hotel room inside my head.

The person next to me on the bed, is the headliner. She was not pleased to find out that this act was playing. She was unfamiliar with them. I assured her of their talent and merit, yet she remained skeptical—that is, until they began to play their music. They changed her mind. She told me so, sitting next me, on a King-sized bed, in a hotel room, inside my head.

To be completely honest, I am surprised that she agreed to play—let alone that she is even present, in this hotel room inside my head. She is quite talented. She also can’t stand my presence. Under normal circumstances—let us say, outside of a hotel room inside my head—she would avoid all contact with me. It is not my place to say that such feelings are unwarranted, either.

Once upon a time, I sent her a song I wrote, thinking that it might belong to her. I was mistaken, apparently. Perhaps she misunderstood the lyrics. Perhaps I misunderstood the song. I remain open to the idea that sharing the song, with her, was a complete mistake. Things probably would have been better left unsaid, and unsent. Thinking about it in some sort of equal measure of pragmatism and ——————————, what is a human being aside from a collection of choices? Regardless, here we are now, on a King-sized bed, watching a concert, in a hotel room, inside my head.

The musical act who was playing their original music, concludes, and they are no longer in the room. However, this notion did not become apparent to me immediately. I was startled to find that my father turned on the television, in the hotel room inside my head. I had no idea there was a television. I had no idea that my father was present. What an entrance! It was an impressive use of show me don’t tell me (bravo!). I politely insist that there is a concert in progress, and that perhaps he should turn the television off. He complies to my request without a word of disagreement or disgust.

While my attention was diverted on father’s insistence to find suitable entertainment in the realm of the two-dimensional, my headlining act, disappeared as well. She was nowhere to be seen. In her stead, two dear and talented friends arrive, and begin unpacking their guitars in order to play. I am thrilled to see both of them, although, admittedly, I am closer to one of the musicians—more so than the other—and frankly, I am surprised to see the more familiar of the two, as he no longer lives anywhere near to me. But then again, what do I know of time and distance and possibility, when it comes to an intimate folk concert in a hotel room, inside my head.

Nonetheless, I greet him with a long and sincere hug to display my deep gratitude for his company. As he unpacks his guitar from its case, I stand from the bed, and walk towards the adjacent area, the stage, if you will, where the previous performers had sat and expressed themselves. I suddenly notice that the arrival of my two performer friends were accompanied in more than equal measure by a large group of strangers, scattered across the space that could be described as the hotel room inside my head. Their presence is not unwelcome. An audience is always appreciated, especially for a concert, regardless of whether or not it is, within a hotel room, inside my head.

I reorient myself towards my friend, who is attending to his instrument, with his back facing me. His hair has greyed substantially since I last saw him several years ago; it would be best described as a distinguished look of salt and pepper coloring, at ear’s length. I mention that “I am so surprised to see you,” to which he replies, “I am moving back here. My house has turned into quite the money pit.” I am pleased to hear of his return, but saddened by his housing woes. I am also just beginning to realize that he is setting up to perform—this is slightly troubling, as I was not expecting his presence to begin with. After all, we have a full bill of performers for the evening, and furthermore: I have no clue where the headliner is. She has all but vanished.

A quick perusing of the hotel room inside my head shows no sign of her presence. I check outside for her, within the confines of the rear and empty parking lot adjacent to the hotel room inside my head. The parking lot is surrounded and secluded within the perimeter of several tall and some yet even taller still buildings and cityscape; and the parking lot, adjacent to the hotel room? It too is inside my head. It is the parking lot inside my head. It is empty, if we do not count me, as I am standing there. Alone. Alone with my uncertainty.

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In My Dreams... #2

This dream was on the very next night after my last dream.

I was walking in an unfamiliar space. A concrete space. Great acoustics... reflective. I knew, intrinsically, in the context of the dream, that I was there to pick someone up from school.

Just as I was getting ready to walk through the unfamiliar entrance, another individual walks right in front of me—unaware of my presence behind them. It is someone I recognize—another musician—a now famous musician. I greet him.

He turns around, and gives me a warm smile. He says hi and encourages us to both continue towards our destination.

I continue to follow him into what now appears to be an auditorium like amphitheater. There are children sitting on the steps.

As I round the corner, I notice the person who I am there to pickup. She notices me, and promptly collects her things. She is around 11 years old. She is my ex-girlfriends’ youngest daughter. Her name is Grace.

I was there to find Grace.

I wake up.

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