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Dreams of a Dad

March 6, 2017 · by Oliver Gray

I startle awake to the sound of a grunt and a meek cry. I drape my arm over the side of the bed to look at the time on my phone, hoping to block as much light as possible from the display. My head aches.

2:13 AM

Lately, I dream of my dad. He’s particularly annoyed with the car parts I’ve bought. Not a single night passes where he isn’t scolding or explaining; imparting, in his own way, how he would have done it, which is invariably not the way I did, in fact, do it.

While the dreams play out in a vividness as potent as waking reality, he almost never speaks. All our communication is nonverbal; grimaces, smiles, shrugs, winks. He’ll often walk some distance in front of me, leading, but rarely looking back.

But last night, he spoke. As he passed an hunk of metal under a spinning wire brush, cutting through 50 years of road grime, he said, “I bet you don’t even know what this is.”

He held it down to my face, so I could inspect it. I realized I was a kid again, standing behind the master as his ever-learning apprentice. The old dirt had given way to brilliant silvery surface below. Pretty, but pocked with years of neglect.

“It’s a brake caliper,” I said.

He smiled. An acknowledgement. I handed it back, so he could return it to its original luster. In that moment, I was as tall as him.

I wake again, this time to a more perturbed sigh and snort. I play the bed-phone-light game again, but this time accidentally flood the room with blue light. The bassinet next to me shifts and fidgets with the hungry wiggles of a newborn.

3:36 AM

Her mom is busy studying her role as Sisyphus, rock replaced by breast and pump. I go downstairs to grab a bottle. The cats barely stir as the fridge turns kitchen night into kitchen day.

In the dreams, we also rarely touch. He wasn’t one for hugs or physical affection in life, either, so perhaps it makes sense. If we do connect, it’s through some medium; my hand on a ratchet as I place it into his waiting, open palm.

But last night, he touched my shoulder. Standing behind me, in a flip of usual place, he reassured me as I torqued down the bolts on a cylinder head. A summer breeze swept through the garage. For the first time in a long time, the tone was not one of lecture, but one of acceptance.

She sucks greedily from the fake nipple. Her little blue eyes flash at me in the dim light, so bright, so wonderful, so overflowing with curiosity. I take the bottle away for a burp, and she screams, but then settles.

Normally, she doesn’t speak, but this morning, she coos and goos a chorus of baby questions.

Normally, she doesn’t touch me, but this morning, her tiny little hands wrap my fingers with a vice grip.

She may never meet her grandpa here, but part of me knows she’s already met him there.

She snuggles into my shoulder a little, drunk on milk and midnight dark.

Sick as a Dog

June 4, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I never understood this phrase. I’ve seen a lot of dogs barf, but afterward they are usually quite chipper and ready to play. I have never been ready to play after being sprawled in front of the toilet/sink/bathtub for an hour. I’m usually ready to sleep, or possibly roll around on the floor pathetically. If the term was, “Sick as a Leper” I might be more understanding.

I started feeling strange on Wednesday morning. I have a generally strong immune system, so feeling sick is an uncommon affair. I did not present with the normal symptoms of sickness, but instead felt strangely detached, almost “floaty” if you will. The closest thing I can relate it to is the late stages of a hangover or the early stages of a pain killer high. Either way, it was quite unsettling and made it very hard to focus on anything. I went through my workday pretending I was fine, trying to remember what spreadsheet I was looking at, forgetting, and having to remember again. I was confused as to actually how confused I was. I was in a bad way, but did not even know it.

My mind would not focus on the things I needed it to, instead I would begin to remember things from my distant childhood that made no sense in my given situation. I remembered a small playhouse that my sister and I had played in and a big spider that had made a nest near my water guns. A brief flash of a rat eating a Snickers bar at a terminal in Baltimore-Washington International airport shot into my brain, and was gone just as quickly. I even at one point remembered things from events that I had made up in writing or exaggeration. It felt like Salvador Dali had ripped a hole in my brain with a knife made of chocolate covered bumble bees.

I had made myself a promise to go for a run that day, in an attempt to negate the beer I drank over the weekend. Despite the strangeness of my aura, I donned my running attire and began to stretch. The sun seemed ridiculously overbearing, and my already rampaging mind made loose connections to Camus. I began to jog my normal circuit, but quickly realized I should not be exerting myself in any way, given my current state. My mind continued its frantic wandering, while my legs screamed in lactic objection. I finished a mile and a half before my body painfully demanded I stop.

Instead of continuing and completing another circuit, my exhausted mind decided to cut across a piece of grassland that separated two office buildings. It seemed a good plan; I would run about 1/3 of the circuit, return to my car and rest. My mind reached for the shade of the nearby trees, but my legs kept a straight and true path across the grass. About 10 paces in, my right foot sank – ankle deep – into a nasty bog. I surveyed the land around me. In my stupor, I had to failed to notice that this “grassland” was not in fact solid, but a mire of awful smelling water. I daintily crossed to the other side, attempting not to step in any more of the foul liquid.

Sweaty, exhausted, sort-of-high and stinking like a swamp, I managed to make it back to my office. I pulled my soggy shoes off and threw them in the back of my car. I drove, or floated, to pick up Tiffany from the Metro then somehow all the way home. I was completely lucid, but definitely not the person I usually recognize as myself.

At home, the feeling continued and made the entire evening very surreal. I believe we were watching “Hoarders” on TV, but I may be blurring one of the previous evenings into this one. The next logical thought was that drinking a beer might settle my brain. One Stella Artois later, I was ready to pull a Rip Van Winkle. I mumbled something incoherently to Tiffany and glided peacefully up the stairs.

The last thing I remember is trying to read the Transition of Juan Romero and thinking I was in Mexico. I may have also heard thunder, or read about thunder, one of the two. The next 8 hours involved some of the most vivid, border-line hallucinogenic dreams I have ever experienced in my short life. I was at one point searching from a Troll doll in a dessert (yes, like a giant hot fudge sundae), at another arguing IT with several of my bosses, present and prior, in a hotel swimming pool. The content of the dreams was not any more random than usual, but the sheer reality of the whole thing made me unsure what was waking and what was not.

I woke up to Tiffany’s lovely face, assuming it was another dream about waking from a dream. I slowly realized it was the real reality, not the weird time-loop one from the night before. Tiffany asked me if I felt well enough to go to work. I think I responded with nearly inaudible whimpers. My head still felt detached from my body and I was incredibly hot. I crawled to my computer, and apparently (even though I still don’t remember) sent an email to my supervisors telling them I wouldn’t be coming in. I promptly passed back out of consciousness but do remember Tiffany kissing me goodbye for the day.

The rest of the day was full of more confusion and dream-laden sleep. I went to eat breakfast, and mixed two kinds of cereal together, for no real reason. After Tiffany suggested I drink some lemonade for Vitamin C, I almost poured myself a glass of white wine. I attempted to play a video game on my computer, but only managed to open 10 instances of the same program without realizing what I was doing. I decided bed was the safest place for me. I spent the next 11 hours watching 15 minutes segments of random TV shows while slipping in and out of my strange coma. I really have no idea what else I did on Thursday.

It was not until 10:00 PM that I regained some level of mental composure. I informed Tiff of my crazy dreams. She very kindly nodded, smiled and gasped in disbelief at the appropriate times. She’s pretty awesome; most people would think I was just out of my mind. I fell asleep again at 11:30 PM and slept all through the night, remembering only a few crazy dream/nightmares this time.

I woke up this morning feeling mostly human. I was all reattached in the proper places and could actually focus on things for more than 2 seconds. I excitedly prepared for work; not because work is exciting, but because I didn’t feel half-way to zombification for the first time in ~40 hours. I put on one of my favorite shirts, grabbed my other work junk and skipped out the door to my car.

I opened the driver’s side door.

My nose was hit with a smell more rancorous than the set of the Sex and the City movie.

My swamp shoes were still in the trunk of my car and had been for 2 whole days; in direct sunlight plus 90 degree weather.

I may need a new pair of running shoes.

Rationalizing Irrational Fears

May 20, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I consider myself a pretty brave dude. I’ve experienced all sorts of physical adversity, emotional doldrums and spiritual crises in my short little life. I’ve confronted nerve-racking challenges, braved strange wildernesses and even, at times, given public speeches in front of tens of people. I am confident I could face Charon and the Styx while showing no signs of fear or apprehension. I stand ready for anything this mortal realm can throw at me, but still two things have plagued my stalwart existence on this blue and green rock, two things that I cannot seem to overcome regardless of exposure or maturity.

Squids:

Squids should not be allowed. I would be the first in line to vote for a President who had an active anti-squid stance. They are horrible, flowing nightmares made of death and malicious suffering. Their “ink” is actually a demonic ichor, capable of rendering a man insane with one squirt. Their soulless, doll-like eyes pierce the thin veil of reality and offer a glimpse into the horrible void that is their watery home. They have no remorse and will eat you and your children (present and future) given the opportunity. We are just fortunate that they prefer the icy abyss, and rarely test our warm beach shores. Everyone thinks that sharks are the real threat in the ocean, but that is only because they have never experienced the horror a multi-tentacle squid-hug. I haven’t either, but the mental scenario I have created is truly awful.

My fear of squids started out as a fear of anything underwater; fish, seaweed, semi-buoyant driftwood, pool cleaning robots, etc. This quickly evolved into a fear of all sea-faring invertebrates, and I remember being quite afraid of sea cucumbers at an early age. While I still find sea worms and other squishy things to be a tad unsettling, they do not invoke my primal fear quite like the image of a squid does. I also seem to have no problem with Octopi, and find them quite fascinating/cute in the right context. Even squids that are dead or drawn in an adorable manner cause uneasiness in my mind.

I cannot decide if my adult fascination with H.P. Lovecraft exacerbated or surpressed my fear. His focus on ancient, evil cephalopods piqued my interest, and made me feel I was not alone in fear of the unknown deep. Lovecraft’s obsession/loathing encompassed the entire ocean, not just squids, so it is impossible to say how he truly felt about them. I’m pretty sure he hated them though.

People (namely Tiffany) like to tease me about this silly fear. Anything even remotely squid-esque will cause me to shift in my seat nervously. Some have even gone out of their way to send me links to stories of giant squids; links that contain pictures. Pictures of GIANT versions of my fear, with insinuations that they can get much, much bigger, or that the pictured specimen is just a baby. If there are squids the size of office buildings somewhere down there, I am never letting water touch my body again.

The irony is that I quite like fried calamari. I guess pieces of a squid don’t bother me, but things (and the latent suggestions about what really exists in the ocean) like the following make me want to run shrieking into the night:

Clowns:

If there is anything more alien and terrifying than a multi-armed, swimming murder machine, it has to be a circus clown. I am not talking about the intentionally demonized clowns that are the focus of things like “IT” or “Killer Klowns from Outer Space“, but the ordinary, disturbingly exuberant kind one might find at a county fair.

The people who voluntarily dress and act as clowns are the scariest by far. They wear far too much makeup, dance without music and often do and say things that are unnecessarily happy. I am a very energetic, generally optimistic person, but I have never in my entire life considered being or dressing as a clown. It is not normal, and people dressed as clowns should be tested for brain damage.

I have no problem with people being lively and fun, in fact I encourage such behavior on a daily basis. Taking life too seriously is a major issue in the paths I walk, and I am often the first to make light of an overly dramatized situation or inject some silliness into the otherwise cold and corporate. But I do not wear a wig when I do this. I do not wear over sized shoes, nor suspenders. I do not laugh maniacally over nothing, at all times. You can be a clown, without actually being a clown. I wish someone would resurrect The Ringling Brothers, Barnum AND Bailey to tell them this. Not that they were responsible for the origin of clowns, but they definitely had a hand in making them “popular”.

I was always confused by the popularity of clowns. Why have they not faded into historical obscurity by this point? Most other things from the 1900s seem horribly antiquated at this point, but somehow clowns, much unchanged from their original concept, still exist. We live in a world of computers and smart phones, but some guy squirting water out of a fake flower on his lapel still passes as entertainment? Clowns are the lowest possible form of comedian (even below mimes), to the point that they should not be alive anymore. I’m not saying we kill all the clowns, but we should definitely kill the idea of a clown. And if some clowns get killed in the process, so be it. The only clowns that may be ignored are French clowns, as they have a legitimate excuse for being clowns: they are French.

And why kill off clowns? Because they are by their very nature terrifying. Children recoil in disgust and horror when a surreal representation of a person on too much cocaine sticks a balloon in their face. Adults avoid eye contact with these people who have obviously regressed to the point that they think riding a very small bicycle passes as a career. Even other clowns are probably disgusted with clowns. I don’t know, I’m not a clown.

No one can tell me otherwise, this is a universal fear that only some of us have actually come to terms with. Look at the following picture, and tell me why this should be allowed to roam free (and make money?) with the rest of us:

The only thing that could possibly be more scary is some sort of squid-clown hybrid. I started to do a Google image search for “squid clown hybrid”, but then stopped after deciding I would like to sleep tonight.

I’ll never defeat The Grump

May 14, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

This entire week, I have been tired. Not the normal “my job is not challenging so my brain is devolving into a primordial mush” tired, but legitimately and totally fatigued. It could stem from my poor sleep as of late; generally I sleep like a proverbial rock but recently the smallest noise or flux in temperature leaves me staring blankly at the ceiling at 3:00 AM.

This morning, my project manager made a point of stopping by my cube to announce with no remorse, “Oliver, you look bad.” Most normal people might be insulted by this, but the language barrier in our office forces one to not take things said at face value. It is a fun but frustrating game to try to discern the true message from an odd selection of seemingly random vocabulary. My assumption this time was that she meant, “tired” but substituted the blanket adjective, “bad” for simplicity’s sake. I suppose it is also entirely possible that I do in fact look “bad” as my dressing and grooming habits have not changed much since I was 12 years old. Let’s just hope the person in charge of paying me is not actually that blatantly mean.

The problem is that this tiredness is not a new thing. I have been battling the grog of morning since my earliest memories of childhood. I hated waking up to go to the airport, even if the ultimate goal was an awesome vacation. I was loathe to drag myself out of bed to go to school, not because I disliked education, but because of my bed-loving, dawn-hating, alternate personality. This is not just a strong aversion to mornings, this is full sleep deprivation inspired schizophrenia. Today, I have finally decided to name my dissociated persona, The Grump.

The Grump (not to be mistaken for the Grinch) is like a crotchety, dim-witted old man who lives in my subconscious, and only has any power over me for a few fleeting minutes right when I wake up. Even if I have had an undisturbed and otherwise restful night, The Grump makes an appearance, trudging around being angry with any/all of the following:

-Cold drafts
-Sunlight
-Laughter
-Conversations
-Tile floors
-Laundry hampers
-Orange juice

There are many more things that could be added to that list, as the Grump does not discriminate in his morning hate. I have learned to control and even at times forcefully remove the Grump, but there are some mornings when still he catches me unaware.

The Grump is not invincible however, and can be stopped or slowed by using any/all of the following:

-Hot water
-Coffee
-Music (above 130 BPM)
–Pandora

If none of these things are available, the only other option is to wait The Grump out. He normally dissipates after 30 minutes or so, and is best avoided during this period.

There are only 2 mortals who truly know The Grump: Mummy and my Tiffany (Clearly Pandora has also seen him, but apparently there is something in feline DNA that makes them immune to The Grump). These two have faced the beast head-on, and from what I can gather when I regain cognitive composure, actually defeated his rampant pessimism. Normal, non-Grump Oliver would like to apologize to all of those who ever received rude gestures and savage grunts during the hours of 5:30 AM to 8:00 AM.

As of the writing of this post, The Grump has disappeared for the day. My project manager had a close brush with him this morning, but fortunately he had retreated to the depths of my brain before she made her interesting observation. I fear he may resurface soon, but fortunately tomorrow is Saturday, and The Grump has a tendency to sleep in.

Update:
Tiffany has pointed out that some cats are in fact vulnerable to The Grump, as seen below: