February 26, 2005

nightmare hotline gives you so much more

I dreamed I was walking down the hall to get to my apartment, and as I turned my key into the lock, a man with curly redhair and thick, disdainful mouth shoved me inside the room and planted a syringe into my arm. It was called Orfine and turned the edge of everything I touched into razorblades, so I couldn’t open the door or escape through a window. Panicked, I asked with all my might for another dream, and it worked. I then dreamed of an old scholar in a dark armchair, with a pile of horror paperbacks beneath his feet. He was addressing me solemnly, as mean orange gleams filled the room. “Read these scary stories at daylight, after lunch or while commuting, not before going to bed.”

I woke up and thought about my dream for a long time. Despite its perceived ‘controlled’ resolution and the silliness of it, I was still feeling anxious and upset. The bad thoughts lingered over breakfast, and I remembered about the free Nightmare Hotline I read about a while ago, on slowwave.com. I had carved the number on my placemat for fun, but never thought about calling. Until something drew me to it this afternoon.

The prerecorded greeting and bad musak reminded me of prank calls to the Mr. Christie’s cookies Hotline and the likes, in company of giggling schoolmates. I suddenly felt that the nightmare volunteers’ goodwill shouldn’t be sneered at and I was about to hang up, when a lady came on the phone.

Her voice was frail and old, but also warm and soothing. I felt self-conscious, not sure if I could let my reserve go. I asked if they offered interpretations, or consigned the dreams for research, or something else. She left a few seconds of silence extend between our voices before saying, dreams cannot be interpreted, only dreamt, and told. She invited me to share a childhood nightmare, and I went on from there.

One of the interesting aspects she mentioned was in regards to the themes and symbols that a recurring nightmare involve, and how theory suggests that a parallel can be established with an unresolved issue in the dreamer’s waking life. She said that maybe the dreams just parallel and feed one another, their meaning contained within themselves. She told me some funny and twisted moon indian tales, of giant bears found to be frauds, of dreams used as smoke signals. Unlike me writing this down, the lady conveyed such an empathy, a gracious curiosity towards the strange nighttime workings of our minds, that the thought of this old woman giving all her attention to strangers’ nightmares, and providing comfort (perhaps the same way she once cared for her own tearful children, awaking in a sweat), the thought simply overjoy me.

Posted by nathalie at 06:37 PM

January 30, 2005

memories of the carnival

In my hometown of Lafontaine we had a miniature version of the Carnaval de Québec, with a small parade, small hills to slide down on pieces of cardboard that the elders waxed for maximum speed. The high point was the Petit Bonhomme crowning, a diminutive copy of Bonhomme Carnaval. On the year my brother turned 10, he was called to duty. He got to wave from a flourished parade float, but he was also mandated to raise 200 $ for the local Optimist Club. I don’t know how familiar this organization will ring; I believe it has branches all over the world. I never had any idea what was going on at the Optimist Club, except they were always raising money for themselves and holding rocking chair marathons. The Optimist Club Junior was for kids 8-14, and my friends and I all attended it, because of rumoured dance parties. I remember getting kicked out once for my contribution being vulgar on a collage work. Everyone was kicked out at some point or other, even the quiet ones. Then we were all re-allowed into the club following the same vague ceremonials, reciting the Optimist rules, shaking the hand of those who claimed they had been offended.

I only attended the Quebec city carnival a few times, but never did I feel at ease there, nor did I manage to escape the threatening sense of being back into the Optimists’ fold, white as snow, ready to kick you out at the slightest misbehavior.

Not long after he hung up his Petit Bonhomme costume, my brother and I founded a Bitter club jr. We held a fundraiser, purported to help us buy sturdier fundraiser boxes, the ones we used being old butter pots with a cut-out hole on the lid and inspiring pity. After a few years we had amassed a pretty sum, until one night my brother raided the locked tinboxes and took off for the sea. He left me only a couple of dollars, and a note suggesting I order chinese food, like we used to do whenever we felt fortunate. But I got mad.

And from then on, I never rested. My efforts culminated in the Union certification and ensuing revolt of Bonhomme Carnaval, which got all the elders from the Optimist Club up in arms. It is now obvious that their sinister credo cannot withstand the modern world, and I have faith that with their surrender, new hope will unlock in the heart of this foolish, carnival town.

Posted by nathalie at 12:57 PM