I dream a lot. And I capture dreams. In contrast with many people I can recall my dreams for some time. That allows me to get inspired by the most wonderous stories that happen in my dreams. Most of my dreams have to do with traveling. Well actually almost all of my dreams. The explanation for that is that life for me is one big continuous process of change. Change I welcome and never am afraid of. It even drives me to write the way I do about the topics I choose. It makes me follow those dreams and makes me travel. As such my dreams are often the seed where new experiences and friendships derive from.
Being a dreamer is nothing like being unrealistic or a being out of reality. It merely is a mirror of my life combined with imagination, inspiration and experiences. My dreams tell me things I do not easily recognize when fully awake. They do change the coarse of my life and even the most important decisions in my life have been triggered by the subcontious reality of my dreams.
So I learned to value my dreams and to sometimes chase them. For me my dreams define me as a person and as an artist. As a writer.
Because of that I’ve been capturing the first sentence that pops in my mind as soon as I am waking up. I pen them down, for reference. It’s a way of capturing those dreams. Sometimes these sentences do not telle me that much, sometimes they explain themselves later. Sometimes much later. The moment I am really awake I try to spend half an hour writing down the dream I had based on that one sentence. And that way of handling my dreams sometimes brings me stories or poetry. Or the need to change someting in my way of life. I also log the time with that sentence that I pen down in those early hours. Somehow that seems important although I do not (yet) know why.
This morning’s sentence at 6.54 AM was: “Where is Alan Road?”.
Alan Road could of course be a road. But Alan Road wasn’t a road in my dream, it was a person. This Alan Road is someone I’m searching for. I met him on a trainride from The Hague to London. He was a young man, a performer. A poet. He was on his way to perform in London in an old pub where they have poetry evenings where writers and poets come to listen to each other and enjoy each others company. Alan was a quiet man, I think around his thirties. With an unshaven face, like some guys think is looking cool. He was sitting there in the fast moving train quietly on his mental island. So was I. We didn’t talk at first.
It took us an hour before we exchanged words. He started first, I answered. We talked about how the landscape changes colour while traveling in a fast train. And how that seems like a film, a fast changing decor. Something that is not really out there but that’s projected. Alan started this game of imagining a world outside the train that was not real even though we were looking at it. I went along with him and we had a lot of fun thinking of all kind of situations and people inside that moving landscape. And what they did to each other, how the loved and cheated, what businesses they had and who killed who, where a little boy was about to be born and what that boy would later become. We envisioned people walking in the fields in northern France, hand in hand being romantic. And about a cyclist who tried to follow the train for a while abviously unable to keep up with us. Within mental minutes we were in Calais riding into to Channel Tunnel and quickly after that on our way on the English main land. We laughed a lot. Alan was a nice guy.
By the time we arrived at the trains destination we had exchanged phone numbers and plans for the coming days. I promised to come to his performance, somewhere in the Wimbledon area. So, a few days later I went there. There was indeed a poetry night going on in the Alexandra, the pub he told me to go to. He described the place accurately so I had no doubts. But Alan wasn’t on the program. I waited, searched, but didn’t find him. No Alan. Halfway the evening I asked a barkeeper wether he knew where Alan Road was. His answer was simply “Just around the corner miss, two blocks away.”
Only then I realized I had been in Alan Road years ago, to visit a friend who lived there. It must have been more than 30 years since, and I wonder why this place came back to me. I guess I’ll have to check it out someday or maybe another dream will explain this.
© Alice Anna Verheij