As a general rule, I hate posts that start off, “Oh, man, I had this crazy dream” (though I’m willing to put that aside when it’s my own post and my own dream). Like, ultimately, who cares? Unless it has a really funny narrative–and on the off chance it does, then it’s probably not the dream you actually had, you’ve probably done some heavy embellishing, ’cause, like, when was the last time you dreamt a goddamn romantic comedy, start-to-finish?–no one’s going to give a shit but you.
See, the problem is, dreams don’t translate. I can’t explain to you the weirdness of trying to sneak away from a speech being given by a deranged, shotgun-toting George Bush, Sr. on the White House lawn and–even weirder–Bush pere subsequently calling me out by name, trying to shame me into staying. Nor can I convey how fucking terrifying it was to step out into the Barataria Swamp to protect my dogs from a rabid jackal. (A jackal? Do they even exist anymore? WTF?) The stories, the images, can’t be shared with others–not even the colors, since I myself tend to dream in shades not seen since Missle Command was a hit at your friendly neighborhood arcade.
I can, however, tell you how great it is to be able to remember subconscious scenes, tableaux. I can imagine how my boyfriend would have growled at me last night (if he were here) when I stumbled from the bed at 4:00am, lurching to the study in search of a pen and paper to write the shit down. And I can laugh at myself like I did this morning, trying to decipher the gibberish I scrawled in my half-sleep: “fishing rodeo w/cats.” I mean, did I really think I’d be able to remember that crap?
In other news, it’s time for a redesign. Maybe.
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