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I have this recurring dream in which the brakes in my car give out. The shudder these dreams share is that moment when I'm pressing down but the car careens.
I've had this dream in various forms for probably twenty years or so. Not too often -- every couple of months I'd guess. I had a version of it last night as one of my last late-dawn eye-flitters. The thing that struck me, as I yawned myself into the day, is that we're hardwired for metaphor.
Our brains could operate in a much more literal fashion. We could fall asleep and a fast-talking phantom self could give us an eight-hour lecture on exactly what it is we hope for and what we fear. But instead we close our eyes and we generate these little poems for ourselves.
In my case, my brain seems to have found a metaphor it likes and it's sticking with it. I suspect that the brakes meant one thing when I was twenty and they mean something a little different now that I'm two times twenty. But the image persists. Or maybe it's been the same mortality song all along: "hey, wait -- stop time!" And wouldn't that be nice?
That sensation of soft brakes is so real, I find myself wondering if I ever owned a car that had this problem. Was there something wrong with the brakes on that strawberry-scented Chevy Impala I drove as a teenager? Or the gold Accord that carried me from New Jersey to the West Coast?
I don't think so. These aren't real brakes, after all. Just a poem I tell myself at night.
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Ya know, I would still have them checked out, while you're there waiting reading out of date PEOPLE and Car and Driver mags, think about scheduling that inspection of your sub-conscious muffler as well...they do the whole thing while you wait, (for enlightenment) for like a few bucks...you just put your head back, get some of that mechanic coffee wit the non-dairy creamer, watch Oprah, smile at the old man next to you in for an oil change and a damn reason he keeps seeing (in his recurring dream) his kids stealing pound cake from the fridge in the garage constantly, while they have all moved away to Toronto. Anyway, just check the brakes, I mean you have kids now too, your not that young anymore, and I am sure they have taken the extra sweet or two from you while you pulled the emergency brake...just a thought,,
I've got a one-word cure for your "metaphor," old friend: Viagra.
Or is sometimes a soft brake just a soft break? :)
Rodney K.: hoisted, I say hoisted by my own metaphor!
(and yes, I'll admit I've gone back and changed a few of the, um, unfortunate word choices in the original entry.)
-Cecil
i have a similar, recurring dream. i have to push the brake pedal down, down, down as hard as possible to make the car stop. i think it's related to my 1980s oldsmobile custom cruiser station wagon, but i honestly can't recall.
maybe i drove your car and it's poor brakes. that smelled of strawberries.
i KNOW it's not an issue that needs viagra. i mean, come on. the wagon's turbo charged fuel injection works like a charm.
like a charm!!!