I keep a journal. It’s a physical one, usually just a spiral notebook, that I scribble in with a pen. Most of the entries are snippets from books. The journal is where I collect ideas or turns of phrase that I want to revisit.
I also sporadically use it to record details from my nighttime dreams. These two sources—books and dreams—aren’t entirely dissimilar. Both contain stories, sometimes comprehensible, sometimes inscrutable. In most dreams, I feel detached, like I am observing someone else’s creation.
I’m coming to the last pages of the journal I started in June of 2016. I reread what I had written over the last year and a half. Whoa! The entries about the dreams made me laugh in kind of an isn’t-life-crazy kind of way. Maybe you will also be amused by these? Or concerned?
12/30/16: “J and I were in a space ship and learned too late that we were going to be ‘put out’ (into space, that is). They [the aliens] were annoyed with him at using too much network bandwidth and having brought his cassette-playing Walkman on the ship. In the dream, I was indignant about that second charge: at least the Walkman doesn’t use bandwidth!”
3/15/17: “The skin on my rear end was feeling bumpy. I looked in the mirror to see the bumps. They were teeth.”
11/4/17: A work colleague “had had her body amputated. She was just a head. She had a little chariot that she rode around in. It had a padded neck stabilizer, like the one we had in our infants’ car seats, wheels, and an electric motor. I was impressed.”
Freud and friends would have a field day (or night).