Dream of the Sleep Disorder Research Center

dream as poem

I'm at something like 
a sleep disorder research 
center, lying in 

bed. An older gent 
is standing there. (The doctor, 
presumably.) He's 

an upbeat, cheerful 
fellow — reminds me of the
employment consultant 

I worked with recently 
on a job search, who in turn 
reminds me of 

Agent Lundy on 
the TV show Dexter. He's 
holding some vinyl 

records, and one is 
playing in the room — meant to 
help me fall asleep, 

I guess. (This echoes 
a scenario in an 
episode of the 

TV show Northern 
Exposure that my wife and 
I watched recently, 

where Dr. Fleischman 
observes Maurice sleeping in 
order to determine 

whether he has sleep 
apnea.) The music is 
instrumental —

solo guitar of 
some kind that reminds me of 
a vinyl album 

I owned back in the 
days of vinyl albums: 
Baroque Guitar. 

"This reminds me of 
baroque guitar," I say. I 
fall asleep. When I 

wake up, I discover 
I've left the sleep center. 
Presumably while 

still asleep, I've driven 
my car (which is a '65 
T-Bird, the first car 

I drove as a teen, 
which is long since gone in real life) 
to my eldest daughter's 

apartment complex 
to help her with some car trouble 
she's having. I'm slightly 

alarmed to have driven 
while asleep, but relieved that 
I don't seem to have 

crashed into anything. 
Sitting in the driver's seat, 
I look around the parking 

lot and spot my daughter's 
car. I maneuver around 
the lot and pull up 

near her car. When I 
get there, I find my younger 
daughter kneeling down 

beside her sister's 
car. I see that she's trying 
to blow air into 

the tire, like you would 
blow up a balloon. I think 
to myself that that 

probaby isn't 
going to work. In fact, 
however, I then

observe that the tire 
actually does appear
to be inflating.

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