Don't you think it is funny, how when you have a dream right before you wake up you can recall every detail of it? It seems so perfectly real, so vivid. Then as the time passes, so does the acuity of the dream. More time passes and the dream simply drifts out of your mind. Or does it really? Where does our brain get these images, these stories that we put on like a movie show each night? In my dream I was walking through the snow, down the street in Broad Ripple. I knew it was Broad Ripple, yet it didn't look like any street I know there. My son said, these are the way the streets are, here by my private school. We'd just come from eating at an Italian restaurant. Outside the front there were fountains and gardens covered in ice and snow. Three dogs came up to the railing of the restaurant and started singing for dinner while standing on their hindlegs. What in the hell does all of that mean? I think that some of the best authors must be vivid dreamers and know how to harness what goes on in the depths of the brain at night. For me, it is like sand slipping through my fingers. I wish I could hold on to it for just a little while longer.Various ramblings....random thoughts..
Like a maze where all the walls continually change..
You never know where you'll end up.
I'm so well behaved, I'm the "textbook" definition of good. So, look around and enjoy your visit.
I might surprise you now and again and be the "textbook" defintion of bad...
Monday, January 02, 2006
Don't you think it is funny, how when you have a dream right before you wake up you can recall every detail of it? It seems so perfectly real, so vivid. Then as the time passes, so does the acuity of the dream. More time passes and the dream simply drifts out of your mind. Or does it really? Where does our brain get these images, these stories that we put on like a movie show each night? In my dream I was walking through the snow, down the street in Broad Ripple. I knew it was Broad Ripple, yet it didn't look like any street I know there. My son said, these are the way the streets are, here by my private school. We'd just come from eating at an Italian restaurant. Outside the front there were fountains and gardens covered in ice and snow. Three dogs came up to the railing of the restaurant and started singing for dinner while standing on their hindlegs. What in the hell does all of that mean? I think that some of the best authors must be vivid dreamers and know how to harness what goes on in the depths of the brain at night. For me, it is like sand slipping through my fingers. I wish I could hold on to it for just a little while longer.
