A lucid dream
A lucid dream is a dream in which the dreamer feels awake, is aware of dreaming, andable to control events consciously. Though by no means a recent discovery (the phenomenon was described in a letter by St. Augustine as early as 415 AD, known to Tibetan Buddhists in the eighth century and discussed again by Sir Thomas Browne and Samuel Pepys in the seventeenth) there is still no scientific consensus on the brain dynamics underlying a lucid dream. This, however, should not trouble the aspiring lucid dreamer. His only concern is that of realizing during a dream that he is dreaming, after which everything else will follow: the strange new state of consciousness, the dreams of almost alarming vividity and, most wondrously of all, the delirium and exhilaration of oneiric omnipotence.
There is a lot of advice on how this realization is to be attained, and some of it is quite fascinating. It is suggested, for example, that the dreamer press an index finger into the palm of his hand. If he is able to push his finger through his palm, he will know that he is dreaming. He is also encouraged to play with light switches and radios, which in dreams are notoriously unresponsive, and to examine a book whenever he comes across one since it will likewise verify that he is dreaming if the text of this book has a shifting, liquescent appearance that renders it almost completely illegible. Last year, having read up on the subject, I set aside a week during which I determined to have a lucid dream. For the first three nights I dreamt as usual. On the fourth night, I made a little progress: Standing on a crowded bus, I realised I was dreaming but subsequently made the mistake of trying to convince my fellow passengers that they too were dreaming; was not, in other words, convinced of the unreality of the dream, could not exercise any control, and so disembarked at the next stop in despondency and confusion. But then on the fifth night, for one supreme moment, I succeeded. The experience reminded me of something I had realised several years ago: that a being with unlimited power but without the moderating control of divine intelligence (or, in the worst case scenario, an all-powerful but nervous klutz with poor impulse control) would almost certainly bring about the end of the universe by an impulsive succession of absurd, Apocalyptic blunders. Perhaps, unable to repress the thought, he starts by making his wife scuttle spiderlike back and forth along a corridor at such a tremendous velocity that the friction incinerates her body. Next, his beloved is raised from the dead, but she is part-goat. Our man grips his hair in two fists and screams, "No!" but it is too late: the earth is converted into a giant sphere of luggage. (I was later to learn that a similar idea had already been explored, with alternative absurdities, in H. G. Wells' short story, The Man Who Could Work Miracles). Here is my dream: I am crossing a dusky park with a phantasmal retinue (the usual dream stuff) when it dawns on me. I give a waggish laugh and shout, “I am dreaming!” The intrusion of this piece of diurnal logic into the twilight realm of the dream has a violent and instantaneous effect. The dream, and everyone in it, disappears. Floating in darkness, I think of, reach for and find a light switch. A fluorescent tube strobes the air, clicks erratically, achieves finally a humming glare. I am now standing in a modern penthouse apartment, in a dream marked by a distinctly undreamlike brightness and clarity, in which my gaze is free to probe at leisure all the unwavering details, the creamy shag carpet, kitsch decor and tinted floor-to-ceiling windows that disclose a nocturnal view of a vast, glittering city. Sensing obscurely that I am an intruder here and do not have much time, I decide to begin at once with a modest, preliminary experiment. I sit down at a nearby table and think of water. At once, a glass stands before me. I think the glass empty, and upon the thought, it drains off. I bolt to my feet, giddy with power, intoxicated by the manifold possibilities, and cast about the apartment for inspiration. With a toothsome ache, I see a painting of a saucy Venus on the wall and make a predictable decision. But suddenly my brain begins to vibrate. I see the dendritic branches of my brain fanning out through the dark. I know they are going to pleach the conscious and the unconscious regions of my brain together. I feel a neuronal thoroughfare forming between dream and reality and realise that my dream is going to trespass on reality and reality on dream and that I will be lost irreclaimably. The brain-vibrations spread down my spine... I cower, and I sink, slowly and willingly, back into an ordinary dream. (I am standing on a beach. Spectral samurai pass on horseback like a gust of wind. A colossal papier-mache Christ is under construction far, far out to sea). |