Opinion / Tomos Lewis
What dreams are made of
It was the dead of night in a country lane and I was all alone. Through the whispers of the wind a noise started creeping in the darkness: the rising, staccato chattering of monkeys. Hundreds of them, angry and on the hunt, getting louder, closer and more ferocious as they poured out of the night and into the country lane – towards me. I’ll spare you the rest of the nightmarish details but suffice to say that, at the event’s grizzly crescendo, I bellowed in horror – a shout so loud that I woke myself up, wide-eyed in the darkness of my Toronto bedroom in the small hours of the morning. This was in the early days of the pandemic.
Dreams for many of us have been vivid affairs since the outbreak began, seemingly weirder and more pronounced as the waking world has, stage by stage, been tipped on its head. The Museum of London, in collaboration with the Museum of Dreams at Canada’s Western University, has now invited Londoners to share their pandemic-era dreams for the Guardians of Sleep project. The oral-history initiative will chronicle the pandemic’s more personal impact through the prism of our sleeping adventures. Submissions are open until January and the exhibition is scheduled to open (pandemic permitting) next year.
By understanding our dreams in a time of collective upheaval, the museums say, we could get a clearer picture of not only what impacts our personal and mental wellbeing but also our resilience in the face of it, something that Ontario’s Museum of Dreams has been researching since 2015. As for me, I’m happy to report that no monkeys have stalked me since that night in early spring – it was just a bad dream after all. Here’s hoping we can all say the same about the waking world as 2020 draws to a close.