Thursday, February 12, 2004
Donald Sutherland refuses to screetch at me
I've been slightly off-center all week—tired mostly, and taking cat naps when I can get them (and the wasps didn't help matters at all today). I've also been having “disturbing” dreams and what's worse, I can remember these “disturbing” dreams.
Now, while I consider these “disturbing” dreams as nightmares, I don't think most would actually consider them “nightmares” per se—to me the stereotypical nightmare is one you are being chased by a fire-accident victim in a cheap sweater with nine-inch finger nails or being subjected to the friendly advances of rednecks while being serenaded by banjo music in the backwoods of the Apalachian mountains. I could only wish to have such nightmares. No, the “nightmares” I have, the reason they're disturbing, is that the situations are so frighteningly normal. Think of The Stepford Wives, or Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Things seem normal, but there's this undercurrent where things just aren't right and even in the cases when I can pin down where things aren't right, there isn't much I can do about them, like the dream where the trust-fund frat-boy scion of a powerful family is placed into a position of absolute power.
Oh wait … that isn't a dream.
But it does give you an idea of just how “disturbing” my dreams are (if only Donald Sutherland would screetch at me … ).