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 … ).
