Yes, it's been a while since I've updated this. I haven't been sleeping well at all lately, so consequently my dreams have been less impressive and less amusing. If they don't amuse me, well, I guarantee the few people who read this won't be entertained either.
Last night, I dreamt I was on the bench in a basketball tournament. My team was winning, and I spent all halftime scream-singing "FAME! I'M GONNA LIVE FOREVER! I'M GONNA HOW TO FLY -- HIGH!" and jumping as much as possible.
So, I had a very weird linguistic dream last night. Not only did I dream in my native English, but also Italian, Russian, and German. It's very strange, I tell you.
We had opened another preschool location in Italy. Emergency warnings came across the bottom of the "screen": it was like we all were watching television, but it was real life too. Carol looked at me and said that she couldn't translate it; I said I didn't know any Italian, so I was of no help either. All I remember from the actual wording is "della," but somehow I managed to make out that we were supposed to have the children wash the flour and water off their hands before they played their games. Olga started to talk in Russian, and although I didn't understand her, it seemed a bit more accessible. I walked out of the room and got a Radiohead song stuck in my head--"Dollars and Cents." I had the lines "All over the world, I can see out . . . of here." So I started to translate it into German, disregarding grammar, and came up with something like "Alle . . . umwelt, Ich kann aus heir sehen." Not too terrible for being asleep and for not having had a German lesson in over four years, I suppose.
I've been taking some "me" time; either that, or I've been much too lazy to remember my dreams. Last night, I dreamt about walking along the river (which was flooded), crossing under a bridge, then it not being flooded, thanks to large drains at the bottom of the river.
I also prowled around in alleyways and stumbled upon a screening of new advertisements. The final three images were audience-participation screens: they flashed two puppets, and then the audience selected one to advance to the special television show. One puppet laughed exactly like Fred Gwynne's portrayal of Hermann Munster. Another was a librarian mouse named Bookzilla. All the puppets were quite amusing.
Other dreams this past week have involved non-sexual Alyssa Milano blow-up dolls (there were five of them), fantasizing about the new apartment complex I so want to move into, and job interviews.
In some smallish room, Mom was half-asleep in a chair. Linden came in and went to another room to sleep. An woman in her mid-forties came in and went to Linden's room to sleep, gushing that he could "recite Shakespeare, no, Chaucer, even in his sleep." Some guy from NPR came in: he was about eighteen, with a mohawk, piercing, and Black Flag t-shirt (it wasn't Jeff). He settled on a fainting couch. I didn't leave because of him, but I knew I had to leave right then. I had been on the phone with Mari, although I called her Zorak, and just left the phone dangling when her mom started screaming at her dad.
I went downstairs, which was a high-dollar department store. I walked past the four people in the basement and went straight to the fancy porcelain dolls and tin movie posters. One of the dolls was a 8.5" fashion doll with slots cut in her so she could identify clothing. She would say, "I want my flip-flops" and you'd put her flip-flops on, then she'd say "thank you." She randomly barked orders about pieces of clothing to put on or take off. Not wanting to be bossed around, I glanced at one of the movie posters. When I found one that I "recognized," I saw the opening scenes of a movie starring "Beulah" or "Bertha" or "Beatrice"--I can't remember which. It was a woman who looked quite a bit like my aunt Marie screaming as the camera zooms in closer. Her face is lit by rotating police lights (red-blue-white). The film is in black and white except for the colored lights.
When I look away, I'm surrounded by a lot of high school people. Jon was twirling around. Someone said to me, "he's always been much too skinny." I said, "Would you believe there was a time when I was that thin?" Then I spotted Josh, and I ran towards him to give him a hug. "I love you for eighth grade," the last time we were in a class together. He started crying and said, "I don't know why I'm crying, but I am." I walked through the crowds of people, chanting, "I have three secrets. I know what Olga is getting her husband for his birthday . . ." and I can't remember the other two.
I found a set of photo albums and started browsing through them. There were several of a carnival. Dawn and someone else babysat needy Asian children for National Honors Society community service hours: it had a very Dorthea Lange quality to it. Charlie was shown wearing a full cowboy outfit; the backdrop was a map of New Mexico, Colorado, Oklahoma, and Texas. The name "Lamar, New Mexico" was bolder than any other word.
Sitting with Karrie, Erika, and Olivia, they pulled out a Diet Dr Pepper can with which I had won a decorating contest. Since my design was chosen, they had printed it up on several cans. I had done this in middle school (c. 1990) and had based my words on the theme "Louisiana Democrats for John McCain."
Two quick nightmares (probably induced by Lortab):
I call the Center and either Rebecca or Katie answer. They murmur into the phone the typical greeting, then add "or whatever." I want to talk to Matt, but my mouth is unable to open.
I am asleep on the marble dining room table. Mom is throwing a dinner party, but I'm too near unconsciousness to move. I hear the doorbell and know that people will soon be staring at me as if I'm some buffet item. I hear footsteps on the linoleum. I want to tell them I'll move, but I'm unable to speak.
I dreamt that the following scenes appeared on Saturday Night Live: Drew Barrymore and Adam Sandler continually playing with hair, Will Farrell smearing grape jelly on his nipples (through his shirt), Oscar De La Hoya signing autographs, a discussion about race between Oprah Winfrey and a white separatist, and Bjork cursing at the end of the show. I was editing a spreadsheet about the show and started to cut some information. I was on the phone with Mari, even though she was on the show: I think I was watching a rerun. She accused me of lying on the spreadsheet by not including every single of information about the various skits. I told her I was summarizing.
Kristi G. and my mom shared a jewelry-making studio space. Kristi was showing Leslie her new work: one of her favorite pieces was a knitting needle with stones wrapped in wire around them. I gave her the idea of wearing knitting needles in her hair and selling them at the city-wide festival.
I went to a chamber music performance for some reason. I know that my tickets were right next to Howard and Nelda. I excused myself from getting cultured as they found their seats because I needed to get my laundry done. I had my big bag of dirty clothes with me and I went to the Bill Clinton Room on the mezzanine level. It was dubbed so by students who attended classes on him and his actions for the past eight years, but there was also a washer and dryer there that many students used. A sign on the door said that it was no longer the Clinton Room and that washing machines were not for students' use. I went to the main level and found a washer and dryer in the swimming pool. I hopped in the pool, put my clothes in, and lined my canned goods up by the edge of the pool. Matt's friend Adam was sitting behind a drum set, got out, whispered something in Brooks' ear, and slid back into the pool. Brooks stooped beside the pool, "You know better than to put your canned goods there." So I opened the washing machine and threw a few cans in. "That's not what I mean. It's very inconsiderate of you to display food in public like that. Some people have allergies." I told him that I wasn't making anyone eat anything and that I wasn't even opening a can, releasing smells. Well, it turns out that Adam is severely allergic to tomatoes and just the visual appearance of a tomato printed on a can's label could inflare his allergies. So I threw all the cans (still sealed) into my washing machine and just listened to them all bang together.