For What It's Worth Dept

 And in This Corner: Style!

(or), Diary of A Madman

Dreams and dreams in books. Every seven or eight years or so, I’ll have a series of vivid dreams and with me, this usually marks a change in life’s direction (weather I like it or not). Inevitably my subconscious will come and tap me from behind, with its hand out, unannounced. Last time around was the start of the new year; new company policies probably set it off. And when these visitors from the other world hit – they really get me to thinking. You know the type: talking black cats, acquaintances from long ago, a panoply of places and conversations: a nightly ambush of ridiculous characters and circumstances; sometimes light and warm, sometimes gray and hellish. Trumpeting heralds proclaiming topsy-turvy riddles, guess-images, and earth-shattering punch lines: all grist from the mill of your little ‘ole subconscious. All the unusual suspects, parading down the avenue of your road in the basement.

When these times come, a book or two may find its way into the shopping sack. I feel compelled to take a swing at figuring these things out. Such was the case recently, when I felt the need to finish the latest dream-puzzle. So I bought a few books on dream interpretation, and I did find out a few useful things: there are universal symbols, of course, but generally these nocturnal movies are played specifically for the person within their purview – a brother in your dream may really be your brother: in mine it may only be an aspect of myself. But this all depends on the dream-storyline – something like what is done by script-writers to make a television story fit – all a matter of convenience for the governor of the subconscious.

Only one of these ‘dream interpretation’ books turned out to be any good: “Dream Dictionary (a-z)” by Tony Crisp. This book offered up a rather thorough list of logical (logical, as far as can be said for the subconscious) meaning(s) for symbols, thus allowing one to find the closest meaning based on the context of a particular dream that I (or you) may have. Maybe I should say, the dreams which have had me. We’re talking four-eyed black cats and battleships.

Life does not stand still during these interesting times. Outside, the real world beckons in rude and loud tones as it rushes by. Demanding that you join in. “Get out and jump into the stream!”, it yells at you. “Come on in, the capitalism’s fine.” Occasionally, you might fancy your neighbors sticking their heads out the window and yelling, “Shut-up!”

So, we really can’t stand still, no matter the odd distraction. One has to carry on the daily task of buck-passing. Patriotic consumerism. The coffee, the beans, the spaghetti sauce; they’re all waiting. A quick check on the light bill and it’s out the front door to pound the hard pavement. And what variety of shopinomics shall we try today? Which strategy? Frontal assault. Maybe a round-about excursion, and flanking movement? You know the game. Plastic in hand, garbed in our psycho-social war-paint, we become the brave warriors of currency trader. Instant contract from the printed image of a dead president staring up at you. The task of contributing to the economy is vital. Seems we have to feed the meat puppet in order to ponder our destiny and check in on the deeper meanings in life - maybe figure out what in the heck our dreams are trying to tell us.

So down to the Shop-o-matic, and - there it is – a pack of coffee over here, a can of beans on aisle two... a few more knick-knacks, and then – something catches the eye...

Engraved and raised from paper surface as if by magic, it shouts at you for attention. You cautiously edge over, and - look! It’s the latest NY Times best seller! Of course, being a paper-back means that it’s already gone through phase two of market-recycling, but never mind that: It’s – “Now Available in Paperback! check local listings in your area...”. The usual jargon. Still – it does look so shiny and appealing. Looking to left and right, I reach for paper-back wonders and…

Stuffed amongst the jeans, a coffee maker, and a bag-o-rags is the royal road to the conscious – no, not another dream book this time: it’s a copy of “Cell”, by Stephen King, and “Deep Black: Jihad”, by Stephen Coonts. Ah, to sit, perchance to read – aye, there’s the rub! This should be good, because I plan to read both at once. After a mind-bending session of research into the land ‘o dreams, and sifting through all manner of dream-scapes, I’m going to bend it to the breaking point, baby. Waxing the car can wait.

This is where the above mentioned style comes in. If you’ve read these two, then you’ll remember Cell as an epic into bright and colorful insanity. Coonts, on the other hand, uses black paint to move you atop a dark lagoon filled with shadows and terrorists. Both authors are quite able to paint their story-towns quite red. Turn those pages, kid.

As with many books, the length was a bit word-long in places; albeit well worth the ride. On reading the ‘bio’s, I noticed that both authors made use of co-authorship – in one form or another: with King, it was help through assisted research; with Coonts, the contributing writer was Jim DeFelice – probably a contributor with knowledge of terror tactics and government counter-surveillance. I’m not the most up-to-date keeper-upper with the world of publishing: I wonder if this double-headed paradigm shift by major authors is here to stay. Hmm…

Both works have technology as the locus: King’s is the insane conclusion of a world gone awry because of technology; with Coonts, the world is saved by technology. One takes place in the present: bent from a complete fantasy, into something that would be believable, if allowed to take place.  ‘Jihad’ on the other hand, is a near-future world of techno-hypothesis, written with enough skill to suspend belief.

The fascination with King, is his set up of a fun-house atmosphere, gone stark raving mad. You can almost feel the pleasant afternoon, see the cotton candy, and hear the squealing kids, just before they go completely loco.

Coonts uses place in his book to mean two things: it is set in  Istanbul, which was and still is, a major crossroads of east and west. Of old, it was Constantinople – eastern seat of Roman power. Under Constantine, it became the big-house of Christianity. The forces of Islam wrested it from the west long ago, reconverted the Sofia, later converting that into a museum. Sad to say, the nobler aspects of Christianity, as concerning its higher purposes, have been made a museum-piece – at least as far as any dealings with Islam. In the present day, and even walking into history park, Istanbul is a crossroads where the cymbals of religion have clashed mightily.

In the end, it’s who won – right? Of course, we’re talking about the forces of good ‘n evil. Interestingly, in both of these novels, terrorists and terrorism was the catalyst for evil.

Both novels finish up with the good guys still standing; albeit bruised and wiser for their epic journeys’. Once a preset number of conditions come to pass, the die is cast: the struggle is waged and there is no other course to take as far as character and main storyline are concerned. But there may have been a time in our very real distant past, and maybe even today, when there was a choice about which fork in the road to pick. So, that brings us to motive(s). But that's almost a whole nother story.