So far as you're concerned, the most fun aspect of sleep is dreams. You by no means put the knock on other aspects of sleep, not the least of which is providing you with a fresh take on the day ahead. If there is anything to some of the studies you've been reading about, sleep appears to be offering the equivalent of a session with a shrink.
These past few days, your dreams have been wildly vivid, focusing more often than not on something you're writing or believe you should be, because others are waiting for it. Wild and vivid to the contrary notwithstanding, your dreams tend to be about realistic things, which adds up to a satisfying sense.
In one recent dream, you were making a getaway from some pursuer, driving what appeared to be a 1956 VW Beetle Sunroof with an FM radio a good friend of yours called decadent.ginger ale was, while wishing you had enough The dream was going fine as you drove down a street that began to pinch in at the sides, leaving nothing but a single rail. Unused to so much intervention in your dreams, you had no choice but to wake up.
The one notable feature you come across in your dreams is the dialogue, which is perhaps the weirdest aspect of all to your dreams. Only last week, before you were hit with this despicable flu bug, you were in a restaurant, attempting to finish a meal. The manager or owner, when presenting you with the bill, said, "Mr. Lowenkopf, you are the agenbite of inuit."
You felt the response rising in you that asked "How the fuck do you come off talking to a patron that way?" Whereupon, you woke, thinking how nice it was in a way for James Joyce to find his way into your dreams. This example shows the extent to which your dream mechanism goes to represent people talking.
This introduces a dream-related quandary and perhaps more than anything illustrates how the flu bug has messed with your ordinary process, perhaps feeling the need to whisk you along your way to recovery. In your dreams later this afternoon, you had the sudden awareness of how much good a glass or ginger ale would be for your battered carcass. Not long thereafter, you believe you dreamed of your pal, Jim Alexander, calling through your window, checking to see how alive you still were, and did you need anything.
"Ginger ale," you said. "Please."
"Anything else?"
"Ginger ale," spoken with the conviction of it having come from the deepest depths of you.
"On earth as it is in heaven," Alexander replied. As you tossed and turned in bed, thinking of the curative potential of ginger ale, you were the more convinced you'd dreamed the first part. Alexander does not talk like that. You have never heard him say,"On earth as it is in heaven."
Back to some semblance of sleep then, all the while thinking what a splendid idea ginger ale was, regretting your own wobbly condition which you knew would not let you venture out. But wait, here it was, afternoon already turned to darkness, and here you were, stumbling to the refrigerator for a blast of ice water. Sitting in plain site on your kitchen table was a box of soda crackers, in effect grinning at you in the haze of reality.
The soda crackers are important because you never once thought of them, awake or asleep. The fact of their presence meant Jim Alexander had indeed come by to see if you were still alive. You rushed to the refrigerator to confront a large bottle of Vernor's ginger ale.
The dance between dream and reality always fascinates you, but in these strange moments of you trying to cope with this invasion, odd dreams come through that more or less have ruled themselves out for relationship to anything of immediate concern. Also arriving, a sudden, almost chilling suggestion related to a professional connection you've been trying to effect. You couldn't read all the print on the document, but you knew its reference point. Stamped in red stamp pad ink FORGET ABOUT IT.
Yes, quite wise.
A reminder that you need a dog. A reminder of one of the hundred novels you were going to pitch from your work in progress in favor of a more significant one.
Things appear to be taking an upward turn.
Vernor's ginger ale.
The one notable feature you come across in your dreams is the dialogue, which is perhaps the weirdest aspect of all to your dreams. Only last week, before you were hit with this despicable flu bug, you were in a restaurant, attempting to finish a meal. The manager or owner, when presenting you with the bill, said, "Mr. Lowenkopf, you are the agenbite of inuit."
You felt the response rising in you that asked "How the fuck do you come off talking to a patron that way?" Whereupon, you woke, thinking how nice it was in a way for James Joyce to find his way into your dreams. This example shows the extent to which your dream mechanism goes to represent people talking.
This introduces a dream-related quandary and perhaps more than anything illustrates how the flu bug has messed with your ordinary process, perhaps feeling the need to whisk you along your way to recovery. In your dreams later this afternoon, you had the sudden awareness of how much good a glass or ginger ale would be for your battered carcass. Not long thereafter, you believe you dreamed of your pal, Jim Alexander, calling through your window, checking to see how alive you still were, and did you need anything.
"Ginger ale," you said. "Please."
"Anything else?"
"Ginger ale," spoken with the conviction of it having come from the deepest depths of you.
"On earth as it is in heaven," Alexander replied. As you tossed and turned in bed, thinking of the curative potential of ginger ale, you were the more convinced you'd dreamed the first part. Alexander does not talk like that. You have never heard him say,"On earth as it is in heaven."
Back to some semblance of sleep then, all the while thinking what a splendid idea ginger ale was, regretting your own wobbly condition which you knew would not let you venture out. But wait, here it was, afternoon already turned to darkness, and here you were, stumbling to the refrigerator for a blast of ice water. Sitting in plain site on your kitchen table was a box of soda crackers, in effect grinning at you in the haze of reality.
The soda crackers are important because you never once thought of them, awake or asleep. The fact of their presence meant Jim Alexander had indeed come by to see if you were still alive. You rushed to the refrigerator to confront a large bottle of Vernor's ginger ale.
The dance between dream and reality always fascinates you, but in these strange moments of you trying to cope with this invasion, odd dreams come through that more or less have ruled themselves out for relationship to anything of immediate concern. Also arriving, a sudden, almost chilling suggestion related to a professional connection you've been trying to effect. You couldn't read all the print on the document, but you knew its reference point. Stamped in red stamp pad ink FORGET ABOUT IT.
Yes, quite wise.
A reminder that you need a dog. A reminder of one of the hundred novels you were going to pitch from your work in progress in favor of a more significant one.
Things appear to be taking an upward turn.
Vernor's ginger ale.
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