Have a Cigar: More Psychological Mumbo Jumbo

absolute-danny-amsterdam-s

Absolute Danny in Amsterdam. Need  whips and chains?

Dreaming is one of life’s biggest turn-ons.

Granted, when a person is super-tired, sleep seems to be the preferred state for letting the mind wander to more exotic, erotic places and positions of power, grandeur, personal wealth, happiness and security.

A dream’s attainability when awake in the real world is directly proportionate to how much effort is put into the acquiring process, if at all feasible, naturally; and the extent to which people believe in themselves.

However, dreaming while asleep makes the routine infinitely easier.

No vigilant elbow grease is required, nor is tenacity. Just lay back. Let Freud’s “Id” and “Ego” take over, like movie directors’ manipulating a story line.

Many times a dream’s desired outcome presents itself before an individual awakens. Most of the time, Id—the caretaker of one’s morality and social mores—doesn’t allow anything amoral to happen, switching gears to another impervious adventure where the non-preferential ending lacks luster, excitement or fulfillment.

Ego, on the other hand, directs the outrageous events: the downright wild and crazy, sometimes considered immoral by the overly religious or self-righteous; situations in which one would love, perhaps, to partake. Insert any societal taboo here.

Why is it the Freudian brain stays conscious while the body sleeps? The cerebrum must otherwise remain cognizant to maintain functions for controlling the vital processes for living, sort of like being on auto-pilot.

Synapses and neurons which control behavior and emotions are left on as well when in sleep mode, orchestrating the nightly chimeras. If the centers were turned off, dreams would be impossible.

Some folks claim they can steer their sleep-induced dreams to reach the intended threshold, whether it be emotional, sexual, existential, self-serving, mind-blowing, heartwarming, religious, educational, inspirational, artistic, whatever. They must have found a way to switch off the Id, leaving Ego run rampant.

This dreamer has tried extensively to shut off Id‘s circuit breaker, to push the dream’s envelop to the most bizarre extremes, but with no cigar; which reminds me, I’m still waiting to be able to buy a decent Cuban variety at my local smoke shop here in the U.S.

The worst part is when a dream just about reaches conclusion in the most titillatingly radical sense and is suddenly interrupted by the phone, alarm clock, loudmouth neighbor, or landscapers with lawn-mowing equipment and Weedwackers, waking someone out of a sound sleep in total annoyance and frustration.

My boisterous nemesis next door moved out to much jubilation on my part. The one downstairs who continually slammed his front door vacated also. A woman who is quiet as a church mouse re-rented the flat.

Ah, peace and quiet had blessed my beloved existence for a period of one month; but now somebody with a two-stroke sounding motorcycle, one with a high-pitched whine, squeeling like a model-airplane motor when starting and taking off, has moved into the previous blowhard’s apartment.  The new tenant usually parks that contraption close to my terrace and annoys the hell out of me.

When beginning this essay, I tried to present an esoteric topic without my usual complaining about something. Sorry, but it’s Id‘s fault that led me to this sequitur. Or was it Ego‘s?

The summer is almost over, barely four days left until autumn. Winter’s arrival will be soon afterward with the way the seasons fly by. Hopefully by then my new source for a lengthy tirade will be using his car instead of that infernal nuisance: a shrilling excuse for a motorcycle.

Another gripe relative to that: Why must those who drive motorcycles insist of revving the engine constantly in neutral, especially when waiting for a traffic signal to turn green? Is it because the idle is set too low, or are they just showing off in the lane next to me? If it’s the former, adjust it higher for crying out loud. As far as the latter, I’m not impressed.

Then there’s my neighbor’s two-wheel, screeching chainsaw with a noise-amplifying header and exhaust whose incessant squalling goes right through me like someone’s fingernails, scraping the full length of a blackboard. My head feels like it’s going to explode when that engine reaches seemingly 7,000 rpm.

Is that really necessary?

Anyway, may your dreams be extraordinary, undisturbed and fulfilling. Thanks for your continued support.

 

 

 

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About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at Lulu.com.
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