It was during the summer leading up to my son’s birth when I started to have a number of recurring and vivid dreams. They were the kind of dreams that feel significant, even prophetic because they are so clear, charged and memorable even after waking up.
In one of the most frequent and remarkable dreams I arrive home in the afternoon from work and enter through the central courtyard of our housing block. Up above me there’s a mass of clouds with deep shades of grey churning across the sky from a hard wind. I climb the steep, narrow stairs up to my fourth floor flat and unlock the door.
The door bursts open violently and a torrent of water explodes outwards. The wave hits me hard in the chest with an irresistible force.
But instead of drowning I somehow manage to stand my place in the doorway and then – against the waterfall that is cascading out all the windows and doors and flooding the central garden – I walk into the kitchen and look back down at the rapidly forming lake in the courtyard below. Brightly coloured children’s toys bob on the rising waterline, potted plants and picnic tables float half-sunk in bracken brown water. Looking around I notice the absence of my fellow tenants – the entire block is empty apart from me.
Despite this I’m overwhelmed by a sense of contentedness in my new found power, even euphoric. I’ve felt the force of waves and undertow, the incontestable momentum of rivers, the destruction of earthquakes and so on. So how is it now possible that I can stand in this supernatural flood and keep my ground?
“HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO.” A booming chuckle suddenly starts echoing from high up in the clouds. Looming hundreds of meters above the tiny buildings hovers my infant son, a gargantuan pink King Kong-like baby guffawing and flying across the little streets, making Copenhagen’s ant-like inhabitants flee this way and that. And then, more or less as dreams do, the vision fizzles out into my sleep with some other confused and rambling string of image-thoughts. “Zap” like the old televisions shutting off with a spark.
The images and the narrative maintain their structure into my waking days. After several times dreaming this I can recall the details and moods perfectly. It is a strange dream but also beautiful and I have no idea if it means anything – or if needs to be anything more than a small gift from the gods of stories.