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Dissecting dreams and the theory of dreefee
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My dreams are usually mindless and make about as much sense as Axe commercials.

So I really can’t say anything is a “dream come true,” because that would mean, among other things, dinosaurs have escaped from Isla Nublar.

The one area that is usually vivid and encroaches on feasibility involves fishing. The river runs in the correct direction, the shore bends authentically and the salmon are as chrome as real life.

It’s just dodging the Pterodactyl with diarrhea that foils the good fishing. Get on the Internet machine and Google Freud for that one.

Sometimes I’m fishing for salmon in Arizona standing on the beach waiting for the tide to come in, and wonder why it’s been out for so long.

Most times when I wake up from dreams where I was dunking from the free-throw line (while being guarded by Oompa Loompas in cowboy hats), I wake up to the reality that I can’t dunk any longer, and of course, that Oompa Loompas don’t play basketball — they just sing and make candy.

And I have no idea what the cowboy hats were about.

I told you; even the cool dreams don’t make sense.

In the book The River Why, the protagonist’s little brother Bill Bob collects relicts from the day’s adventures, places them in his room as calming mechanisms before sleep.

It’s a dead animal, piece of near-fossilized poop or some odd nick-knack that, when disturbed, leaves Bill Bob unable to focus on sleep. He calls it “dreefee.”

Since finishing the book a couple weeks ago, Nate and I have discussed dreefee and concluded Bill Bob likely used it simply to digest the day, relax and expedite the journey to the REM cycle.

This seemed like a good way to get through grading make up work and finals so he and I sought our own relics of better times to unwind.

I don’t usually have much trouble falling asleep; sleeping on the floor during 24-hour boat rides in winter storms to basketball games during high school tends to develop those types of habits.

But scientific application of this literary piece was worth trying.

While cleaning I found a size 3 Street Walker from my Oregon fishing disaster. Well, it wasn’t a disaster, but we didn’t catch any fish. Anyway, it’s a pretty fly with purple and black secured to a black hook and reminded me of the good time fishing, regardless of the results.

Don’t remember what bounced around in my head that night, but at least it didn’t involve coaching basketball on a soccer field. Score one for dreefee!

In applied science class I had to cut and boil away the muscle from a pair of mink heads my teacher brought in for an assignment. Getting the brain out of the skull without breaking it was tough, but I did it, and got an A-minus.

After 11 years the skulls remain intact and I figured Bill Bob would appreciate the ridiculousness of the dreefee.

No bad dreams, and just before I started drooling onto my fish-print flannel pillows, I recalled some of the good moments of high school, not money, grades, travel or anything disconcerting.

I suppose I like the idea of dreefee and using the literary allusion more than actually attempting to impact my dreams, because sleep is not the highlight of my day, and if I spent all day fishing for something to help me sleep I would be missing the point of being awake in the first place.

Besides, sleeping, or thinking about sleep, isn’t a hobby it’s a lack there of, and too much emphasis on the hours spent outside consciousness prevents the collection of relics that make life worthwhile.

Thus concludes the conclusion-lacking theory of dreefee.

To contact Jeff Lund, e-mail