Friday, 24 December 2004 08:03 pm
'Twas two nights before Christmas....
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deckardcanineAsok in "Dilbert" once said that research shows that nothing is more boring than hearing about someone else's dream. That may be true of a prototypical engineer, but in my experience, it's about the opposite of the truth. I take as much interest in others' dreams as in my own, which is a lot, and I've never perceived others to be no more than marginally interested in someone's reports of dreams, even secondhand. We either forget or don't report the real dull ones, and we seldom include strangers in our audience.
When I told my mom this morning that I had a very un-Christmas-y dream, she said that my sister did too, namely, that we had taken down the decorations before Christmas and thereby made her unhappy. My dream, however, had nothing to do with Christmas and would have made more sense near Halloween. It played like a thriller film with varying focal characters, one in which the undead were increasing their numbers, as the undead are wont to do. Only this time they weren't zombies or vampires, neither of which particularly interest me anymore -- yes, Emily, my phase of asking too frequently about vampires is over -- but invisible ghosts. Live characters were finding evidence via cameras and the like. Despite all the implicit killing, it wasn't really violent but had elements from both "The Sixth Sense" and "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," so I wouldn't quite call it a horror.
The most horrific part was when I found myself playing the role of one of the ghosts. I envisioned myself as something of a Freddy Kruegger figure, but I was much too gentle for Freddy. I abducted a protesting young child; made him a ghost in a ridiculously quick, clean, and painless way; and then did my best to comfort him.
Certainly my dreams are where I see my behavior at its worst (never its best, which meshes with one of the few aspects of Freudian theory I like), but this was pretty much unprecedented. In a situation where I would expect either all my usual scruples or none at all, they seemed to be trying to reconcile with the nature of my...being, for want of a better word. Maybe my mind got tired of the typical thriller formula and decided to show the creep's side of the story.
Disturbed as my good side was even after it had all but conquered my bad side, I am not ready to call it a nightmare. My dreams carry so much excitement for me that I have trouble distinguishing nightmares.
My mom thinks that I must have pent up my creative side a lot to have such a dream. She may be right.
When I told my mom this morning that I had a very un-Christmas-y dream, she said that my sister did too, namely, that we had taken down the decorations before Christmas and thereby made her unhappy. My dream, however, had nothing to do with Christmas and would have made more sense near Halloween. It played like a thriller film with varying focal characters, one in which the undead were increasing their numbers, as the undead are wont to do. Only this time they weren't zombies or vampires, neither of which particularly interest me anymore -- yes, Emily, my phase of asking too frequently about vampires is over -- but invisible ghosts. Live characters were finding evidence via cameras and the like. Despite all the implicit killing, it wasn't really violent but had elements from both "The Sixth Sense" and "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," so I wouldn't quite call it a horror.
The most horrific part was when I found myself playing the role of one of the ghosts. I envisioned myself as something of a Freddy Kruegger figure, but I was much too gentle for Freddy. I abducted a protesting young child; made him a ghost in a ridiculously quick, clean, and painless way; and then did my best to comfort him.
Certainly my dreams are where I see my behavior at its worst (never its best, which meshes with one of the few aspects of Freudian theory I like), but this was pretty much unprecedented. In a situation where I would expect either all my usual scruples or none at all, they seemed to be trying to reconcile with the nature of my...being, for want of a better word. Maybe my mind got tired of the typical thriller formula and decided to show the creep's side of the story.
Disturbed as my good side was even after it had all but conquered my bad side, I am not ready to call it a nightmare. My dreams carry so much excitement for me that I have trouble distinguishing nightmares.
My mom thinks that I must have pent up my creative side a lot to have such a dream. She may be right.
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I actually hate hearing about other people's dreams because I know, from personal experience, that one can never convey the true feeling or look of a dream. Hence, telling someone a dream in detail just seems like you're telling them a ridiculous story with no point. Not commenting on your choice to share your dream just explaining my distaste for hearing other's accounts.
Have a happy holiday season!
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