I occasionally wake myself up laughing. I’ve done it all my life. And while I find it quite delightful– the laughter triggers laughter at that laughter– one’s sleeping partner might not always agree, although Miss Barbara, having been exposed to this behavior for fifty years now, has joined in more often than not.
There’s actually a scientific designation for this behavior. It’s called Hypnogely, occurring only in deep REM sleep, and is generally the result of a funny dream, of course, although it can be indicative of a neurological problem. Freud thought it was about unresolved psychological issues, as might be expected, but as somewhat of an expert myself, I can say its only about laughing at funny stuff.
Although, in fairness, that can be in the eye, or ear, of the beholder. Miss Barbara will tell you that some of the dreams I’ve related were ridiculous, not necessarily funny; sometimes even stupid, though I attribute that assessment to having been awakened, and not genuinely objective. For a time I kept a journal of all dreams, not just the funny ones, but it’s been lost for years now, and I can remember only a few, other than last night’s, which I am building up to. One of my favorites, which is why I still remember it, was obliquely about my great-grandmother, a woman who died before I was born. I guess it was because of her diminutive stature, but she was known in the family as “Little Grandma.” In the related dream I am in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where I spent the summer of 1969. (Another story). I and several other people are out on the Weeks Memorial Footbridge, spanning the Charles river near Harvard. We all have retractable tape measurers, and are measuring our grandmas, who are sitting or lying at various places on the bridge. I think we have decided, through some idea of fairness, to measure a grandma to whom we are not related. I kneel beside a grandma, stretch out my tape, and immediately start laughing.
“This one is five-foot eleven,” I say, through fits of laughter.
One of the other measurers joins me. “That’s not little!” he exclaims, rather irritated.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why it’s so funny.” And it was time to wake up convulsing.
OK, I guess you had to be there. Last night’s episode is perhaps a little stranger. I was suddenly aware of a heavy, existential question: What do you do if a feral cat is living in the discarded lampshade you want to use for a hat? In a flash, before cackling at this absurdity, I assume the role of an advice columnist, and offer this: Well, I think you should continue letting him live in it. Think how unique it will be to go around with a cat in your lampshade hat.
Now, there are admittedly several disturbing levels to pursue here, not the least of which is the obvious reference to wearing a lampshade on the head, a 50s cliche denoting a partier who is three-sheets-to-the-wind. At the other end of the spectrum is the whole Dr. Seuss “Cat in the Hat” thing, which I didn’t get at first, and Miss Barbara had to clue me into. On examination, there actually seems to be a thread connecting these two references, something to do with wreaking havoc. The Cat in the Hat shows up on a rainy day, (it was raining last night), and basically destroys the house of two children. The lampshade-wearing partier wreaks a similar havoc with his (or her) drunken antics. All beside the point. What was hilarious, despite any dark psychological roots, was the initial question. It’s a kind of twisted Zen koan. What is the sound of one hand clapping?, becomes, What do you do if a feral cat is living in the discarded lampshade you want to use for a hat?
That’s hilarious. I think. Why someone would come up with that in the middle of the night, I don’t know.
The Skinny Island Post 
This story reminds me of the origin of an unusual unit of measurement: the smoot, 5’7”ft or 1.6 m. So named for Oliver Smoot an MIT student in the late 1950’s. As a fraternity prank Oliver was laid end to end across the Harvard Bridge in Cambridge. Turns out the bridge measured some 364.4 smoots + or – one ear. Now that should bring a laugh or two.
Ha! I had not heard that story. Or maybe I had and don’t remember. It would help explain my crazy dream. Thanks
Okay, I had to look up the word koan.
Great story!
The sound of one hand clapping is a squelching sound, usually followed by a long, subdued moan.
This normally begins at age 13, and never completely stops.
This usually precedes the complete unconsciousness of REM sleep.
Still trying to assess the Freudian thing about taking the true measure of an ancestor.
Recording her ‘short comings ‘ and trying to find humorous fault with her final stature.
Having been a second decan Scorpio for the last sixty years, I am gifted with a
Joseph-ian ability to predict dreams, and the type, order, and sequence of children
in any given family. I predicted my trip to Germany, my time as a cop, and every major event in my life at least 25 years earlier. And by predicted, I mean actual rooms I
would be in, various times of day, and even the color and type of Mustang I would own.
Your first dream is pretty straightforward.
Weeks Memorial Footbridge. Memorial is a given. Foot bridge is a type of ‘ped’ – such
as pediatrics, or the path the younger generation uses to supplant their elders.
Bridge is a generational crossing over and a sign of transition. Harvard is of course the symbol for learning, or for discovering. The ancestors are at rest where they fell.
The objectivity in your shared grandmother measurements of measuring an unrelated ancestor is a slight universal guilt that you possess for what you all are doing in the first place, which is the judging of the dead.
I am assuming that you are all male measurers and that you measure no grandfathers.
You know that mate selection is ultimately the woman’s choice and so, it’s all her fault,
anyway.
The laughter in this dream is actually a nervous reaction to what you are doing, which
is to see how high she rose in life, and how long this rise in height will make her out
to have been when lying flat; the horizontal distance of her recumbent stature simply
being “how far she got” in life.
Being in the North, in such a judgmental area of the country, indicates the
seriousness of the study.
By not measuring your own grandmother, your findings will be an average of a group
of similar people; your race, rather than your line. The collective measure, in other
words.
I am guessing that you were all white, and of similar anthropological origin.
The humor that you find when actually calling attention to a single full grown
grandmother (5’11”) is that your whole exercise is one of futility; of course she
measures up. In fact, they all do. Therefore, you also measure up.
They all have a place in someone’s memory on a memorial bridge.
It’s not her measure that is ultimately important; it’s what you think of what she
actually accomplished that is the important value.
And that what you are actually measuring is your own hypocrisy.
You decide to ask forgiveness of the dead for such arrogance through laughter, a sign
of your own acceptance of them, and ultimately yourself, and you wake up.
You become WOKE.
I did stand up comedy for about two years in Daytona. We were on the actual Improv
circuit and I was an MC/ opener at Blackbeard’s Back Room Comedy Club.
One of the Improv circuit regulars taught me a very valuable trick; make the audience laugh with truth. Make them agree with you, and they pay in these involuntary
convulsions.
Once you learn that, it’s like holding an audience down and tickling their feet; the
master of this was Robin Williams.
Your second dream/ idea is very easy.
The discarded lampshade is an old forgotten idea (light bulb), or principle.
You wish to give it new life, and think upon it (put it on your head).
A cat is symbolic of a highly unpredictable loose cannon.
The wild cat is a crazy idea like having bats in one’s belfry that you think might ruin the whole of the original idea, and you want to know how to get the ‘crazy’ out of an
otherwise usable idea.
You rather quickly decide to keep the idea, in all of its craziness, and just accept the
idea in its original format.
I do not think that I have ever had a funny dream.
Usually I have something rather terrifying which involves being pursued by
unseen enemies, or trying to avoid an imminent car crash.
More often I am on the beach or in a fifth story oceanfront condo, and this tremendous wave just washes over the first five floors, shattering glass and rinsing everyone around the room..
Stuff like that.
I hope that none of those dreams become predictions!
What absolute bullshit! By indulging in your own delusions of grandeur, you’ve completely missed the whole point. If it’s about anything at all, it’s about “the incredible lightness of being;” joy; seeing connections and laughing at them. Come on, man, lighten up. I’m not at all surprised you’ve never had a funny dream. Hypocrisy indeed. And your interpretation of the hand clapping koan was inadmissible. Try again.