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More dreams
Wednesday, 2 January 2019 10:01 am"I Don't Want To Represent Entropy."*
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I’ve been dreaming about Pat a lot lately. Oddly, she’s in less than great shape, although normally when I dream about her, she might have been dead, but she’s in very good health.
In the first dream, we went to this incredibly expensive restaurant for dinner. The place was enormous and had several rooms. The decor was mid-fifties modern, big turquoise and white booths that looked like Buicks. Pat and I were shown to our booth. We looked at the menus, then waited to place our orders.
Only the waiter never came back.
So we fell asleep.
And the waiter never came back.
When we woke up, the restaurant was closed. There was a stack of yellow glass ashtrays on our table. I was still sleepy, but I was also pissed off that they’d somehow forgotten we were even there. Pat just wanted to go home and go to bed, but I wanted to leave through the emergency exit, to alert somebody about what had happened. But Pat was really tired, so we left through some kind of mall exit that took us to Manhattan. I left Pat inside while I got us a cab, but then I got lost trying to find her again.
I’ve been getting lost in my dreams a lot lately.
Then the dream started over, only I wasn’t me, I was Peter Falk, and Pat wasn’t Pat, she was John Cassavetes. We came into the restaurant, got seated, only this time the waiter brought us drinks. I slipped something into John’s drink to knock him out; it was sparkly yellow and shimmered on top of his drink, but he didn’t seem to notice. He drank it and I slipped out of the restaurant, killed his wife, and came back and pretended to be asleep. I was framing him for the murder of his wife. You see, since I pretended to be asleep, I couldn’t have done it and I couldn’t have been his alibi. It’s a good thing for me Columbo wasn’t investigating this crime.
We woke up when the police arrived, and John got in a fight with the waiter for leaving us sleeping in a booth for so long. The last thing I remember is looking at myself in a mirror before we were taken to the police station.
OK. Peter Falk and John Cassavetes were best friends. That in no way explains why they replaced Pat and me in my dream, or why they were doing a sort of reverse-Columbo story. But it isn’t quite as random as it seems.
My big question is, how tired does a person have to be to start dreaming of falling asleep places?
The next night, I dreamed Pat’s mother and mine had moved in with us. Pat had been dead, and while she wasn’t anymore, she was not in good shape. I had to take care of everything, which I was trying to do, only they both kept following me around, criticizing me.
We lived someplace like where Wilbur and his wife lived on Mr. Ed, out in the country but not a farm. I was moving things to the shed to try to get the house straightened out, and Mrs. Schnell would follow me with a handful of towels, saying I hadn’t folded them right. Then my mother would want to know why I hadn’t made lunch for Mrs. Schnell. I had to get the house cleaned up so Pat could move around in it, but instead of helping, all they did was nitpick unimportant details. Eventually I took off with Pat in the car.
Except for my perpetual anxiety about my inability to clean or organize efficiently, and the fact that I miss Pat a lot, I have no idea what that one was about either. But at least I wasn’t asleep.
*Kay Sweeny/Swenson
-:- -:- -:- -:-
I’ve been dreaming about Pat a lot lately. Oddly, she’s in less than great shape, although normally when I dream about her, she might have been dead, but she’s in very good health.
In the first dream, we went to this incredibly expensive restaurant for dinner. The place was enormous and had several rooms. The decor was mid-fifties modern, big turquoise and white booths that looked like Buicks. Pat and I were shown to our booth. We looked at the menus, then waited to place our orders.
Only the waiter never came back.
So we fell asleep.
And the waiter never came back.
When we woke up, the restaurant was closed. There was a stack of yellow glass ashtrays on our table. I was still sleepy, but I was also pissed off that they’d somehow forgotten we were even there. Pat just wanted to go home and go to bed, but I wanted to leave through the emergency exit, to alert somebody about what had happened. But Pat was really tired, so we left through some kind of mall exit that took us to Manhattan. I left Pat inside while I got us a cab, but then I got lost trying to find her again.
I’ve been getting lost in my dreams a lot lately.
Then the dream started over, only I wasn’t me, I was Peter Falk, and Pat wasn’t Pat, she was John Cassavetes. We came into the restaurant, got seated, only this time the waiter brought us drinks. I slipped something into John’s drink to knock him out; it was sparkly yellow and shimmered on top of his drink, but he didn’t seem to notice. He drank it and I slipped out of the restaurant, killed his wife, and came back and pretended to be asleep. I was framing him for the murder of his wife. You see, since I pretended to be asleep, I couldn’t have done it and I couldn’t have been his alibi. It’s a good thing for me Columbo wasn’t investigating this crime.
We woke up when the police arrived, and John got in a fight with the waiter for leaving us sleeping in a booth for so long. The last thing I remember is looking at myself in a mirror before we were taken to the police station.
OK. Peter Falk and John Cassavetes were best friends. That in no way explains why they replaced Pat and me in my dream, or why they were doing a sort of reverse-Columbo story. But it isn’t quite as random as it seems.
My big question is, how tired does a person have to be to start dreaming of falling asleep places?
The next night, I dreamed Pat’s mother and mine had moved in with us. Pat had been dead, and while she wasn’t anymore, she was not in good shape. I had to take care of everything, which I was trying to do, only they both kept following me around, criticizing me.
We lived someplace like where Wilbur and his wife lived on Mr. Ed, out in the country but not a farm. I was moving things to the shed to try to get the house straightened out, and Mrs. Schnell would follow me with a handful of towels, saying I hadn’t folded them right. Then my mother would want to know why I hadn’t made lunch for Mrs. Schnell. I had to get the house cleaned up so Pat could move around in it, but instead of helping, all they did was nitpick unimportant details. Eventually I took off with Pat in the car.
Except for my perpetual anxiety about my inability to clean or organize efficiently, and the fact that I miss Pat a lot, I have no idea what that one was about either. But at least I wasn’t asleep.
*Kay Sweeny/Swenson