As I grow older, I tend to dream more often, and more vivid dreams.
The one night it would be an entire scripted movie, which – upon waking up – I can see in HD, as if a full length film were playing in my head. Virtual reality sans the paraphernalia. However – and here comes the glitch – I must not attempt to write it down, tell it to my husband, or cognitively think about it. It is like magic: POOF! Gone!
The other night it might be the biggest lot of garbled junk, magic, recollections, fairy tales, and wishful thinking, mixed with a fair amount of reality. O boy! Try to recollect and/or make sense of that lot…
What often triggers any of these dreams, in my experience, is browsing through my contacts. A name comes up. Thys(ie). Boom. That’s it. I’ll dream of Thys. Memories from yea back when I met him – probably 1983 – mixed with my recent, scant contact with him, with a good amount of incredible rubbish chucked in just for laughs.
Thys is the little big guy that would make me sit down between his knees and start massaging my very sore neck. For a small man he has massive presence, but not hands. Initially I was sceptical about allowing this, because of the inordinate amount of pain I lived with. No one touches my neck! This was before I realized that my husband is a wizard when it comes to massaging (in particular) my neck and back.
Thys would knead my shoulders and send shivers of relief down my aching spine, while his SO would ply me with tots of Port, Jerepico, or coffee, depending on my state of excitement. Nothing overtly sexual here at all, people, so move along. Just pure delight in having pain relief, albeit brief. Come to think of it: I did spend a night with the SO – and my husband knows all about that – but that is a story for another night.
This also happens to be the couple that I had the horrendous task of breaking bad news to, at three in the morning. A mutual friend had just been murdered in a love triangle. I’ll never forget my friends grabbing each other and sobbing their hearts out. The memory of the murder may have faded over decades, but I will never forget the image of two men clinging to each other in an uncontrolable display of, mutual, heartbreaking agony.
Friends come and friends go, but some come and never leave (one’s heart). I’m pretty sure I can turn up on their doorstep dead, and I’ll be welcomed with a bear hug from the one, and small, strong hands – reaching to massage my sore neck – from the other.
We all need a friend like Thys.