Sunday, August 23, 2009


For the past few weeks or months or something I stopped remembering my dreams, except for the occasional memory of a dream that's too vague /indescribable/boring to blog about. But in this period of time, I did have three dreams that I think came mostly from feelings of guilt for neglecting to blog about my dreams (which is kind of an embarrassingly stupid thing for my subconscious to be occupied with). The first two dreams would still probably fall under that above-mentioned category of "too vague/indescribable/boring to blog about" (TVIBTBA) But the third one I thought was pretty interesting. All three times I woke up being like "Really?"


I didn't have a body, I was a floating camera, panning across a seemingly endless bookshelf with a bunch of thick white magazines with no words on the spines. At some point I realized I was dreaming and thought to myself, "Oh shit, I should remember this dream so I could blog about it." I woke up and looked around for a pen but couldn't find one and fell back asleep. I woke up again later knowing I had had more dreams but was unable to remember any solid details. Then I remembered the panning across the bookshelf dream and considered blogging about it but didn't.


Again, I didn't have a body. The dream was really just of a red ball sitting in a white space of indeterminate size. I thought, "Oh shit, I'm having a dream, I should remember this and blog about it," and then, still in the dream, I "woke up" and started blogging about the dream. I started writing: "A red ball in a white space..." and then couldn't think of what else to say and then I actually woke up for real.


This one was more like an actual dream.

I was married with one son. My wife and I were both archeologists. We lived in a really nice apartment on the sixteenth floor of a big building. There was an elevated train track outside the window but instead of a subway it was an old-timey steam engine train that would pass by every few minutes.

My son was playing around in the living room and I passed by him and "playfully" tossed him incredibly high up into the air and when he came down I couldn't catch him and he landed on his head. I noticed his tooth came out when he fell but when I looked closer, it turned out a whole row of teeth, like dentures, had come out. He was crying and bleeding and my wife came in and yelled at me for being careless. I called an ambulance and she started cleaning the blood from the rug and when she did she started noticing heiroglyphics in the rug. She pulled out her archeology tools and started dusting the rug or whatever archeologists do and looking at it with a magnifying glass. I came over to read what it said and I saw my son's two hand prints. It's around this point that I realize I'm dreaming and say so to my wife, who suggests I blog about it, which I find funny.

The scene changes and I'm in another part of the apartment with my wife and someone who is apparently a professional dream interpreter. He's saying that my son represents me and I'm like, "Can't a man just dream about his own son without it being secretly about him?"

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