[From Album #1 – Dean Martin Sings (Dean Martin)]
I’ve always been jealous of people who can remember their dreams. Though I’ve done a lot of sleeping in my days, I’ve never been able to remember my dreams. Well, I guess that ain’t true, there is one from a long time ago that doesn’t seem to come around anymore, but that’s not the point. The point is, I’m jealous of people who can remember their dreams, but not in a hateful way.
Gina could remember her dreams really well, she would tell me about them every now and then. Sometimes I was even in the dreams, though it seemed I was always kind of an asshole in all of the ones I found my way into. There was one where she said we were at a party but I was with someone else and she was the girl on the side for me and I was neglecting her, some might say that’s ironic now. There was another one where we were riding a bus and missed our stop and somehow ended up in a prison type of city. We were trying to get out but I was sort of wrapped up in the place we were in, I guess it fascinated me in some way. There were gangs and everything and she kept telling me not to look at them when we would walk by, but I wouldn’t listen. One of the guards told us people who miss the stop in the bus get stuck in that place all the time and nobody can get out. I guess we figured some way to get out because we did, I was reluctant to go, I wanted to stay for some reason but essentially left with her.
That last dream she left in two voicemails for me, that’s how much more detail there was to it, how much she remembered, how much happened. Sometimes it would be text messages or she would tell me when we saw each other. They always fascinated me, and not just the ones I was in. Some were trippy and nonsensical, some were bleak and miserable, there were even a few happy ones in there. She would tell me some were so vivid, she would wake up scared or crying.
She wanted to keep a dream journal, I guess I was sort of her dream journal for a bit. Hell, I kept those two voicemails for a long time, I’d listen to them from time to time when I missed her voice. But that’s not the point.
When we started living together, when we shared a bed, she stopped remembering her dreams. Maybe it was my snoring, maybe my inability to remember dreams rubbed off on her, maybe she stopped dreaming, or maybe she didn’t need to dream anymore. It was probably my snoring. I always felt bad about it. I’d always ask her, at first, what she dreamt about, I eventually stopped since she didn’t remember each time I asked. The only dreams I had left from her were buried in my text messages or saved on my voicemail. So I got a new phone.