Shhh. Quiet. My Brain is Full!

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I’m sure there is good science on this somewhere but what I have read often seems contradictory. I am talking about dreaming, what it means, what affects it; that kind of stuff. Right now there is a lot of talk about the affect of the pandemic and dreaming, Some focuses on the co-occurrence of Covid-19 and dreaming; weird dreams as a side-affect of the virus as it were. Other studies - more psychological than medical - look at these pandemic dreams as related to general increase in stress that comes from living with the pandemic, isolation, lockdowns, masks, the whole 9 yards.

I, not unexpectedly, take another tack - admittedly unsupported by any scientific evidence of which I am aware.  You see, I think it is all about sound. We are spending the holidays up here in our new locale, Burr Ridge, IL., a far western suburb of Chicago. Our “socially isolated cohort” is primarily defined by the extended family of my wife’s first husband. Long story, and unrelated to this current ramble. Anyway “the fam” is made up - generally speaking - of 9 or 10 adults, 3 tweeners, and 2 boomers (my designation for vocally active little ones younger than 3 or 4), a brand new infant, and somewhere up to 3 dogs. Seriously. It is quite a hoot when we all get together - often a literal hoot, a holler, laughter and other more unhappy vocalizations. And that is my point. Decibels - many decibels.

You might think that I am moving to an assertion that the significant, yet unavoidable decibel level when we all get together triggers the weird dreams associated with the pandemic. Actually I am moving in the opposite direction.  I would propose, instead, that the decibel level of “the fam” in full throat, actually fills up my brain. And contrary to what one might think, that full brain does not spill out weird dreams, as soon as the head hits the pillow. Rather, like a carnivore after gorging on a fresh kill, or a human being gorging on Thanksgiving turkey, the sated brain rolls over and passes out on the couch.

It is the more tranquil brain that, after a day of solitary reflection, amusement, and creativity continues that activity into the “sleeping” hours. Finishing, embellishing, often distorting, and contorting the day's creative activities. Add to that the rested brain’s inclination to engage the refrigerator in late night encounters, and the raison d’etre for these macabre dreams stands revealed. So, I think that I must sever the idea that the noise level that surrounds me during the day, particularly the current elevated "sounds of the season," triggers nighttime's strange visions,

I have come to realize that the parents and even the grandparents have become immune to the joyful, youthful cacophony that surrounds them at this time of year.  And I have no doubt I once possessed those intuitive editing skills. Alas, no more. My brain is no longer able to simply allow the playful pandemonium to slide in one ear and out the other. Instead the brain fills up. A question poised to me in ordinary conversation in these situations simply does not penetrate. It bounces off my brain and ricochets out into the surrounding auditory anarchy. However, oftentimes the facial nonverbal cues on the questioner's face makes it obvious that I was being addressed.

Hence I respond with the non sequitur: "Boy, you can say that again."

Unfortunately, they sometimes do.

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