This is a story I’ve wanted to tell for a long time. While not specifically travel-related, I think it reminds us that adventure can be found anywhere: overseas, at home and sometimes even in your own head.
During the early 90′s there was a rebirth of interest in spirituality, mind expansion and all things esoteric. Millions of us read books, watched videotapes or attended seminars devoted to all kinds of odd topics: crystals, trance states, chanting, meditation, dolphins, UFOs, channelling, smart drugs, shamanism, ear-candling, Wiccan bowling and more.
It was kind of a second, more-expensive New Age, but with less patchouli.
I was in my early twenties and open-minded so I dabbled in much of it. I meditated fairly regularly and spent hours running between the New Age and Self Help / Psychology sections of the bookstore. I built a mind machine, with blinking LEDs that did a fair job of relaxing you and then putting you to sleep. I tried but failed to figure out the I Ching and owned a tape of shamanic drumming that could bore you into a trance in twenty minutes.
I never really stuck with any one thing for long. There was too much of it to sample and if I didn’t see results right away, I’d get distracted and find myself back at the bookstore. One thing I did keep working at, however, was lucid dreaming: learning to wake up inside a dream and being able to control it.
It really wasn’t that hard to do — I’d had a few occur naturally already. I read a couple of books, kept a dream journal and soon found myself having several a week — it was fun. And I learned that while I was good at having them, controlling them was a different beast.
It seemed that once my brain started waking up, it insisted on waking all the way up. I’d realize I was dreaming and look around my environment, thinking excitedly “This is it!” Just as the squealing, topless cheerleaders would begin to parachute from the sky and the baby oil fountains fired up, the scene would bobble, spin and then fade as I woke up cursing.
I wasn’t getting in touch with my inner self — I was developing Tourette’s.
Still I kept at it, enjoying my occasional 30 seconds of God-mode, mostly because it’d become a habit and required so little effort. And too, because –let’s be honest– 1,000 flying topless cheerleaders is an impressive sight.
So I kept my journal by the bed, waking a few times a night to scribble a note that would prove incomprehensible the following morning.
Usually it was illegible scrawl but sometimes it was simply cryptic: “Cheese and the wombat. Twice!”
One thing I’d read about but not experienced was speaking to someone in the dream state. The reasoning went that you were conversing directly with your own subconscious mind, so it was a good time to ask for advice. Kind of cutting out the middle man, I suppose.
So when I found myself flying Superman-style one night, high above a desert plain and realized what was happening, I was thrilled to see an old man walking along below me. I swooped down and landed in front of him, eager to learn my own personal Deep Truth.
He was your standard Wise Man — ancient, wrinkled, dressed in a ragged robe and sporting long white hair and an unruly beard. He looked like God’s Grandpa. I remember thinking at the time, What a total cliche — is this really the best I can do?
Knowing I only had mere moments to interact, I opened my mouth and… and… nothing.
I couldn’t think of a single thing to ask him — I’d never really considered this part. What do you ask God’s Grandpa?
What I really wanted at the time was something like “Why are we here?”, “What happens when we die?”, or “How do you pick up women?” You know… the Big Questions.
But in my panicked state, I couldn’t think of a single worthy query. The color was draining out of the sky as the horizon crept closer and closer. Knowing that I only had seconds left I finally asked, simply, “What advice do you have for me?”
He looked me in the eye and paused for dramatic effect, his bushy eyebrows dancing in the wind. I ground my imaginary teeth. Finally, he said “You know, you really need to quit eating those frozen Mexican dinners”.
I was stunned. This being a dream, I’m pretty sure my eyes shot about a foot out of their sockets. “Are you shitting me?” I cried. “That’s it?!”
He shrugged apologetically and said “That’s all I got.” As he turned away everything tilted and flipped, the dream popping like a soap bubble as reality rushed in.
I woke up laughing.
You’ll probably notice a small bulb with holes in it hanging off the side of the shower head — this is a pressure blow-off valve. If for some reason the shower head becomes clogged, this will –theoretically– pop off and allow the water to pour downwards rather than spray up into the wiring. I’ve found that they have a tendency to pop off at random times and scare the hell out of you for no reason. 
