Tag Archives: dream

A Dream …

… ripped from the pages of The Daily Drivel!

Another one of those dreams. We’re living in some urban place, like our old home in Arcadia, but not that specific. Some sort of disaster has happened or is about to happen, maybe economic, maybe nuclear … not clear … but society is breaking down and the people in our vicinity are leaving their homes for points unknown because it’s generally perceived that it’s dangerous to continue living here.

Dystopian. Maybe this is what the Syrian refugees feel, but worse. In the dream I plan us to leave home in two days, but a woman that we know tells us she and her family are leaving tomorrow, and I ponder whether we should leave with them or wait another day. There are  dangers to balance against actions.

Here’s another one of those incidents in a dream which makes me wonder: A man walks toward me, and I expect him to continue walking by, but instead he surprises me and stops and engages me in a conversation that I can’t anticipate. Did I—the objective I experiencing the dream—put this in it? If so, I totally surprised myself. How did I do that? How can you possibly surprise yourself?

This makes me wonder if maybe there are personalities—characters—walking around in my head (probably everybody’s head) independent of the objective I. That’s as hard to grasp as the notion of me surprising myself. But I wonder if it’s true—that the subconscious is walled off into partitions in most of us, and the characters inside only come out to play at night in dreams. Except for the schizophrenic or multiple personality folks (or those prolific authors who arouse my jealousy) whose characters come out in broad daylight to take over.

That’s my idle speculation for the day, my daily drivel, but on the dystopian thing, the dream? With the world threatening to come apart at the seams over the last few years, and a narcissistic mad man poised to take over the reins of the Republican party and maybe the country, I wonder if we should be collecting more canned goods and stocking a “getaway container” in our storage room.

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The Play — A Dream

Lifted and edited from the pages of The Daily Drivel, 2013/11/10

The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the consciousness of the king.
– Intentional misquote of you-know-who

“All the parts are filled,” the young man told her. Odd, that she should think of him that way, the young man, because she was young herself.

He was in the play. She had been in the play, but left. He was new and didn’t recognize her. Now she’d returned, skirting the periphery, recalling her role, remembering the lines which were more than lines, which were more like part of her, which were more like who she was, or had become, or had been always.

The dream story skirts the periphery of the play, and we learn the details only gradually. It turns out the play is life itself, and the actors, outside the play, are incomplete, are like their own dreams, and they wake again, coming alive when they act out their roles.

We don’t know the name of the play for a long time, until it comes to us in an epiphany. The play is play for them, but also serious, involving, making them live more intensely than life itself. It’s about love and danger and betrayal, perhaps murder. And the actors’ outside lives are only shadows slinking in a shadow-box outside the reality the play has become for them.

She was a dancer in the shadow-box, become a dancer in the play. It was one of her talents, one of the reasons she was a chosen one. She’d danced better than ever before. Or since.

She’d not been an original cast member; she’d joined long after the play became a hit and began it’s long run. She’d come to own her role, receiving praise from the critics and adulation from the fans. She’d come to own the role, and the role, her.

They ran it four times a week: Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sunday matinees, with pickup rehearsals Wednesday afternoons, into evening when necessary.

She’d played the lead female role. The leading man, her lover, became her lover outside the play as well. As in the play, they fought incessantly and made up on occasion. As in the play, she became pregnant, and as in the play, had an abortion.

The play was her life; her life, the play.

Addendum from 2014/10/25

Just a thought running through my head in the wee hours this morning while drifting around and about sleep: What if characters in a play or movie talked about the actors who play them?

Pillow talk after wild sex:

“What do you think, Susan, about Wilma Smith, the actress who plays you?”

“Not at all like me, John; she’s pretty much a jerk. How about the guy who plays you?”

“I have no idea. We’ve never had a conversation.”

“You ought to get to know him. It might improve your performance in this movie.”

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