Hotel California

I miss the days when dreams were just dreams, not windows into the psyche, or a replaying of the days events. I miss having dreams that were a form of magic and fantasy, rolled into one.

When I was a kid, I slept with the radio on, back before I was such a light sleeper, needing absolute silence. And I dreamed an entire movie to “Hotel California.” It was me and my friend (I was the sidekick, not the main character) riding our motorcycles and stopping at this hotel. It was odd, and dark, and seemed deserted, but it was about to rain, and we were tired. So we went in. It was deserted, but clearly an old hotel-like the tower of Terror ride at Disney World, although this was before I’d been. There was a plot and a subplot as I wandered off and found out the truth about the hotel, and he went off separately where he met and fell in love with this girl. The girl ended up being chained in the basement, and he was bound to free her as the building started coming down around us. I struggled with him, and had to fight him to get him out, because he wouldn’t believe what I had found out-that the girl was part of the hotel, the lure in a venus flytrap to get you into the bowels of the hotel, from which you would never leave. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave. We rode away on our cycles as the house shook and convulsed and exploded on a bleak horizon behind us. A full story, in the space of that single song.

I know it’s dangerous to tell your dreams to others, especially those who know you. They know how to read the symbolism that you are blind to, and thereby fold back the banana peel, exposing your soul to light and spoilage. But I miss those kinds of dreams, and much prefer them to the ones I won’t speak of, now. I miss those days of dreams with a beginning, middle and an end; simple story arcs, excitement, and drama that was real. I like that much more real than the subtle drama that life seems, sometimes.