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Dream Journal
Nov. 19th, 2015 07:34 amBusy night for dreams -- I can only clearly recall the last batch:
Gillian Anderson, playing a soccer-mom type, was tending a small deer with a human head that breathed fire and also looked like her. She complained that she’d just found out the cleaning wipes she used on her daughter (the fire-breathing human-headed fawn) were the same brand used by a restaurant that served meat, and this disturbed her. We could also we a photo of her and her family, rampaging across a battlefield sowing terror. Her husband bore a shield with the word “Darling” on it in cursive. This became an image on a calendar.
I was in a hospital — nearby a young man who’d just been brought in was having trouble getting any attention — I was trying to figure out the phone extension to call someone to his gurney, but he kept moving towards the stairwell and i wasn’t sure what floor to say he was on.
Wandering through the woods — people were discussing whether or not they liked talking beasts in their fantasy, while I mused that for purposes of film/tv adaptations, beasts were probably easier to do with puppets than beings without fur, i.e. gnomes.
Ahead, there was a cabin. Several people appeared, having a family quarrel — they were all wearing odd yet stylishly co-ordinated clothes, and had the stark expressions and uncomfortable poses of models in a Comme Des Garçons fashion shoot. I recalled a Tumblr commenter earlier in the dream having wondered whether clothes in the future would be anything we today would recognize. I hoped to myself that instead saris would take over.
An elderly shetland pony was sidling past a younger horse, feigning as much weakness and pathos as he could until he got close to the oats, then diving in and swiping them from under his rival’s nose. He may have referred to himself as “The Warlord” while doing this. I was with a party visiting an airfield in the neighbourhood; we had elaborate cupcakes with hats of on them; I took off one of the sugar hats and held it against the head of a small portrait bust nearby. One of the busts was of a bespectacled youth, a pilot from the airfield’s WWI days — he had some unlikely name like Fotheringham; I identified him somehow with the pony from earlier. Someone complained about grouchy the cabbie had been who had driven us out there. The scenery means nothing to them, I said, if they drive people here every day. Now it became a blog post or online article about the airfield; they had diaries and letters of some of the WWI pilots, including Fotheringham, who the article described as sounding “intelligent and spoiled, and alive as if he’d only just now taken the King’s shilling.” It went on to note he was one of the rare pilots of the time who confessed fear in their writings. Thinking of that bespectacled face, I wanted to say “maybe that was his Clark Kent persona,” but I couldn’t find the comments button. I woke up trying to find it.
Gillian Anderson, playing a soccer-mom type, was tending a small deer with a human head that breathed fire and also looked like her. She complained that she’d just found out the cleaning wipes she used on her daughter (the fire-breathing human-headed fawn) were the same brand used by a restaurant that served meat, and this disturbed her. We could also we a photo of her and her family, rampaging across a battlefield sowing terror. Her husband bore a shield with the word “Darling” on it in cursive. This became an image on a calendar.
I was in a hospital — nearby a young man who’d just been brought in was having trouble getting any attention — I was trying to figure out the phone extension to call someone to his gurney, but he kept moving towards the stairwell and i wasn’t sure what floor to say he was on.
Wandering through the woods — people were discussing whether or not they liked talking beasts in their fantasy, while I mused that for purposes of film/tv adaptations, beasts were probably easier to do with puppets than beings without fur, i.e. gnomes.
Ahead, there was a cabin. Several people appeared, having a family quarrel — they were all wearing odd yet stylishly co-ordinated clothes, and had the stark expressions and uncomfortable poses of models in a Comme Des Garçons fashion shoot. I recalled a Tumblr commenter earlier in the dream having wondered whether clothes in the future would be anything we today would recognize. I hoped to myself that instead saris would take over.
An elderly shetland pony was sidling past a younger horse, feigning as much weakness and pathos as he could until he got close to the oats, then diving in and swiping them from under his rival’s nose. He may have referred to himself as “The Warlord” while doing this. I was with a party visiting an airfield in the neighbourhood; we had elaborate cupcakes with hats of on them; I took off one of the sugar hats and held it against the head of a small portrait bust nearby. One of the busts was of a bespectacled youth, a pilot from the airfield’s WWI days — he had some unlikely name like Fotheringham; I identified him somehow with the pony from earlier. Someone complained about grouchy the cabbie had been who had driven us out there. The scenery means nothing to them, I said, if they drive people here every day. Now it became a blog post or online article about the airfield; they had diaries and letters of some of the WWI pilots, including Fotheringham, who the article described as sounding “intelligent and spoiled, and alive as if he’d only just now taken the King’s shilling.” It went on to note he was one of the rare pilots of the time who confessed fear in their writings. Thinking of that bespectacled face, I wanted to say “maybe that was his Clark Kent persona,” but I couldn’t find the comments button. I woke up trying to find it.
