I’m sitting on a bunk bed. The top bunk. I’m guessing here. I don’t really have any concrete indication that I am on the top bunk of a set of bunk beds, but it just feels that way.
I’m just sitting there. Well, to be specific, I’m on my side, reclining on my elbow, just staring at nothing in particular. Except for a white wall across from me. I realize after a moment or two that positioned up against the wall, between me and the wall, is another bunk bed. Only I can only see the top bunk. The aisle between my bunk and the one across from me is less than a foot. Again, I can’t prove this. It all just seems so within reach of my not-elongated arms.
And again the white is there. Everywhere. The pajamas I am wearing are white and apparently without wrinkles of any sort, for there are no shadows reaching from any sort of ridges or indentations. There are no blankets. Just blazing white, wrinkle-free sheets.
The room I occupy is exactly the length of the bed and exactly the width of two of these beds, plus the less-than-a-foot between them. I am lounging, doing nothing at all but seeing white and thinking about how white it is. And yet how the white isn’t blinding or in any way unwelcome. To turn a phrase, it’s all white, and it’s all right.
From dream-right, to my left, comes Mark Ruffalo. He’s floating in the air, entering the room through a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. He gently lands on top of the bunk across from me, and smiles.
I don’t find it strange at all that Mark Ruffalo has showed up. In fact, I had been expecting him, biding my time by noticing all the white stuff. And now, he’s here. So we chat. I tell him about how I loved him in The Kids Are All Right. How he didn’t win many popularity contests by the time the credits rolled, but his character had been set on a course toward change. We also talked about Zodiac, another one of my favorite films, and how he should really win an Oscar some day. How it isn’t fair that Sean Penn has two, and he has none. The one for Milk, I tell Mark, he deserved. But not the one for Mystic River. Clearly that Oscar should have gone to Bill Murray for Lost in Translation. Mark nods his head in agreement, and keeps flashing that toothy grin.
I say we are chatting but that’s not true. I come to realize that eventually. I’ve been doing all the talking and perhaps only imagining his replies. In what passes for reality when you’re dreaming, Mark never says a word. Just keeps smiling. Lounging on his own bunk, mirroring my own posture.
And then I realize that I want to show him something on the computer that just happens to be sitting on a desk below his bunk. Of course, everything is still white. (I don’t notice if it’s a Mac or not. Sorry, Steve.) I start looking for what it is that I’m looking for, and then the screen freaks out. I’ve downloaded a virus and nothing will load. Well, stuff loads, just not the stuff I’m searching for. On and on I go, trying to figure it out, but to no avail. I keep glancing up at Mark, apologizing for this snafu, but he just keeps smiling that smile. Like he just doesn’t give a shit if I find the site or not.
But I keep on searching and apologizing and fretting.
And then I wake up . . .
Philosopher, filmmaker, writer and all around great-guy-with-a-great-Eddie-Munster-haircut dude HH Christopher Nolan has taught us that we simultaneously create and discover the world we inhabit in our dreams. It is where our genius is given free rein, our subconscious manifests itself, and minds wake up. If all this is true, then what the hell am I doing dreaming about a dreamy, silent-but-smiley Mark Ruffalo?!
Maybe I need to come out of the closet . . .