Sunday, 3 October 2010 11:10 pm
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deckardcanineYesterday I watched the first half of Brazil. That was enough to influence my dream last night. Figures that an 8 1/2-inspired Terry Gilliam movie in which the protagonist keeps dreaming, daydreaming, and hallucinating would have this effect.
I was part of a senator's reelection campaign. We were all going to a restaurant when, still outside, he got a bullet in the chest and died. My mind must have rewound the dream, because I saw it happen again from another angle, this time no longer surprising to me. It appears that I was the only witness in the party this time, but the assassin wasted no time running away. The senator was still alive at this point, but I had a terrible feeling that my intervention would not stop the "prophecy" coming true.
Still, I had to try. I helped him over to the nearest people, a woman and two children. Then I called 911, only it took three tries because somehow the numbers were rearranged and mislabeled. Absently, I asked for the police rather than an ambulance. I could barely hear the person on the other end as I clumsily described the situation. When I went to the nearest intersection to indicate the address, I found that one of the street signs was a little chalkboard. (Most street signs in DC do have white letters on green.) Hoping that no vandal had changed the street name, I concluded the call.
When I looked back, the woman and children were crying and the senator was no longer visibly breathing, tho it looked like he hadn't bled much. I tried to reassure them by saying he'd be shocked back to life, tho I didn't really believe it myself.
A single, overweight policeman arrived and went to carry the senator away with nothing but his own strength. For some reason, he had to climb onto a platform that had all these watermelons sliced in fourths, some of which had turned orange and mushy with age. While carrying the senator, he slipped on one of them and started screaming and falling in slow motion. I turned away at the last second, looking instead into the woman's newly distressed face.
When I turned back (skip this paragraph if you like), I found that the cop had accidentally put his hand thru the senator's chest, as tho there were no ribcage. Still not much blood. In retrospect, the surreality reminds me a little of some episodes of "Celebrity Deathmatch." As the cop stood up, he had something in his hand, but I refused to look hard enough to identify it.
I stormed into the restaurant, where the rest of my group was cluelessly chatting. They all stopped and stared when I made my announcement: "Senator Kelly is dead. Very dead." That's about when I awoke.
Maybe you don't see any connection to Brazil. After all, there's no futurism, bureaucracy, or ductwork involved.
Well, for starters, my dreams are rarely so darkly comical. I knew the ending of Brazil already by reputation, hence my sense of futility. I envisioned myself as a bit like Sam Lowry, what with all my desperate fumbling. The woman and children were definitely based on the Buttles. The phone reflected the unreliable technology; the street sign, the ease with which one might cheat the system. Like the repairmen, the cop arrived sooner than expected (if at all expected) but was ultimately unhelpful -- not that I would've done better myself, as we were both inefficient and incompetent. The chatting diners reminded me of the aristocrats who tried hard to ignore the terrorism behind them.
My last line was interesting on multiple levels. Even at the time, I was aware that I was quoting Storm as she burst into a room in the first X-Men movie. (Until then, I didn't even have a name for the senator.) The add-on was meant to preempt any false optimism like I'd tried to instill in the woman and children. Yet bad as I felt, I had the sensation that it was all fake, if not designed for entertainment.
Can't say I hope to have more such dreams. But it was okay for a change of pace.
I was part of a senator's reelection campaign. We were all going to a restaurant when, still outside, he got a bullet in the chest and died. My mind must have rewound the dream, because I saw it happen again from another angle, this time no longer surprising to me. It appears that I was the only witness in the party this time, but the assassin wasted no time running away. The senator was still alive at this point, but I had a terrible feeling that my intervention would not stop the "prophecy" coming true.
Still, I had to try. I helped him over to the nearest people, a woman and two children. Then I called 911, only it took three tries because somehow the numbers were rearranged and mislabeled. Absently, I asked for the police rather than an ambulance. I could barely hear the person on the other end as I clumsily described the situation. When I went to the nearest intersection to indicate the address, I found that one of the street signs was a little chalkboard. (Most street signs in DC do have white letters on green.) Hoping that no vandal had changed the street name, I concluded the call.
When I looked back, the woman and children were crying and the senator was no longer visibly breathing, tho it looked like he hadn't bled much. I tried to reassure them by saying he'd be shocked back to life, tho I didn't really believe it myself.
A single, overweight policeman arrived and went to carry the senator away with nothing but his own strength. For some reason, he had to climb onto a platform that had all these watermelons sliced in fourths, some of which had turned orange and mushy with age. While carrying the senator, he slipped on one of them and started screaming and falling in slow motion. I turned away at the last second, looking instead into the woman's newly distressed face.
When I turned back (skip this paragraph if you like), I found that the cop had accidentally put his hand thru the senator's chest, as tho there were no ribcage. Still not much blood. In retrospect, the surreality reminds me a little of some episodes of "Celebrity Deathmatch." As the cop stood up, he had something in his hand, but I refused to look hard enough to identify it.
I stormed into the restaurant, where the rest of my group was cluelessly chatting. They all stopped and stared when I made my announcement: "Senator Kelly is dead. Very dead." That's about when I awoke.
Maybe you don't see any connection to Brazil. After all, there's no futurism, bureaucracy, or ductwork involved.
Well, for starters, my dreams are rarely so darkly comical. I knew the ending of Brazil already by reputation, hence my sense of futility. I envisioned myself as a bit like Sam Lowry, what with all my desperate fumbling. The woman and children were definitely based on the Buttles. The phone reflected the unreliable technology; the street sign, the ease with which one might cheat the system. Like the repairmen, the cop arrived sooner than expected (if at all expected) but was ultimately unhelpful -- not that I would've done better myself, as we were both inefficient and incompetent. The chatting diners reminded me of the aristocrats who tried hard to ignore the terrorism behind them.
My last line was interesting on multiple levels. Even at the time, I was aware that I was quoting Storm as she burst into a room in the first X-Men movie. (Until then, I didn't even have a name for the senator.) The add-on was meant to preempt any false optimism like I'd tried to instill in the woman and children. Yet bad as I felt, I had the sensation that it was all fake, if not designed for entertainment.
Can't say I hope to have more such dreams. But it was okay for a change of pace.
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no subject
I had another of my Ed Wood style dreams this morning. I was at a hotel at a furry convention and I got there too late for the good rooms. The people in front of me got broom closets and the ice machine room. Then even those ran out, and I got a chest-of-drawers under the counter at the bar, barely enough room to lie down and guys clanking their glasses on my ceiling all day and night. And I tried to get a commission of some furry art and the artist drew me a chicken leg instead.
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Brazil is the sort of movie I respect more than I enjoy. Good thing I mentally prepared myself by assuming it wouldn't be funny at all.
Last night I dreamt that I told my dad about this LJ post. Yes, really.
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The movie reminds me of Being John Malcovich, where they have "low overhead", literally.
Have you ever watched The Dream Team TV program? They basically just analyze dreams, but it's interesting. I think your dream may have something to do with childhood play in contrast to adulthood, and maybe some other issues. After all, one guy on that show was describing Spider Man and that's what they told him about his dream (only more accurately with more useful insight).
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Never watched "The Dream Team." For all my interest in dreams, I've stopped believing there's much to learn from them.