Oh, great. Now even my dreams get unwanted advertising.
Early this morning I had a flash of a dream in which I saw the corner of a New Orleans-style hotel. A professional broadcaster’s voice said “Independently owned! Personalized service!” Then this really ugly guy appeared, wearing glasses, and he said with a Southern drawl, “I’ll come in thar and wake you myself if I haff to!”
(I didn’t get the name of the hotel.)
Honey, I’m home!
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I’m downtown and I bump into a guy I used to work with. He’s pretty dull so I don’t want to spend much time with him. Regardless, he clings, and eventually invites himself home to dinner.
We weave our way through a labyrinth of ladders, tunnels, and secret passages through Old Montreal to get to my snazzy loft. We arrive and I see that my wife is entertaining a guest. My wife is none other than Claudia Schiffer, and her guest is either Sanford Blatch (the really gay friend of Carrie Bradshaw on Sex in the City — the one with the yellow suits) or Willie Garson, the actor who plays him. (It’s hard to tell.)
I am confronted with three problems. First, I don’t know if the guest is Sanford or Willie, so I don’t know how to introduce him to my guest. Second, I’m not a big fan of supermodels, and Claudia Schiffer — despite the outstanding bod — has never really done anything for me. Third, I can’t remember her name.
I go over to greet my supermodel wife, and she stiffens with cold resentment. Probably because I call her "Elle" (as in, Elle MacPherson). It’s all downhill from there, and I’m relieved to wake up and find my own supermodel — whose name I know — lying beside me in bed, purring softly in her sleep.
A description of a dream that I emailed to a few friends. Circa 1998.)
I had this dream last night. No pun intended, but it was reminiscent of the film "Last Night" in that it seemed to be about the end of the world, or at least the end of the terrestrial world.
Apparently there was a flood coming, and coming rapidly. It wasn't coming in the form of a catastrophic tidal wave, but rather a calm but steady rising of the waters.
There were a number of characters in the dream, I believe they were an assortment of my friends, but no particular faces come to mind. We were in a rural setting. It was mountainous, similar to, but not exactly like, the landscape in the Cape Breton highlands. Somewhat like the less dramatic eastern highlands, perhaps, like the area around Ingonish. It appeared to be late winter or early spring. It was not particularly cold, but there was snow around, especially in the mountains.
The dream was quite long and involved, and linear, but my memory of it is scattered and not completely coherent. I remember there being some sort of gathering or meeting in which we discussed the coming flood, and we realized there was nothing we could do to prevent it. All we could do was seek high ground and hope that the flood stopped before it reached whatever height we were able to climb to. We did not know what was causing the flood, but there was a general feeling that it would probably not stop, that the rising water would cover everything.
The first real visual memory is that of standing on a low rise, looking toward the sea, with the mountain behind me. The coast was about a kilometer away. It looked peaceful. Then there was a lot of dialog, after which we began to scramble up the mountain, as it was late afternoon and we knew the water was coming.
The mountain was quite steep and snowy, and forested. I remember climbing with my hands and feet going through the thick wet snow, using trees and whatever else I could grab to keep me from falling back. At that point the sea had come the full kilometer towards us and was lapping at the base of the mountain. The urgency of the climb didn't make that much sense, really. The water was rising, but it wasn't exactly on our heels once we started to climb.
At the top of the mountain, which was probably 300 meters, we found a chalet, with a view of the sea through a wall of windows. We spent an anxious night there, with lots of booze, although we were not really drinking to excess. The mood was somber but not panicky. We all knew that the water would most likely rise higher than the chalet, but we didn't know how long it would take. There was a small feeling that we might survive, but it seemed unlikely. One tangible bit of evidence of our attitude was that there was no effort to keep the chalet tidy. There didn't seem to be any point. There were drinking glasses all around and there was no attempt to clean up. I remember specifically picking up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label scotch, and having to pick through the glasses scattered all about to find a clean one. I found a few clean water glasses, but I was searching for a proper "old fashioned" scotch-drinking glass. I ended up using a dirty one.
The night passed, and in the morning I went to the window to check on the water's progress. I was alarmed to see that the water was within ten vertical meters of the chalet, meaning it had raised about 300 meters overnight. I didn't panic, but had a deep sinking feeling. At this rate, the water would be at our doorstep within half an hour. There didn't seem to be anyone around at the time (I think the others were asleep). I switched into "find a solution" mode, but there didn't seem to be one. Even if we had a boat or a canoe, it would be like being set down in the middle of the Atlantic ocean with no food or water. There was simply nowhere to go. The last thing I remember was my wondering if the chalet would float. Then I woke up.
See if you can analyze this dream I had last night. My cat, Spiff, needed medical treatment. Specifically, he needed a new body, although his head was just fine.
So I went to see a veterinarian, who for some reason was located in a photocopy center (along the lines of Kinko’s or Copie Express). M and I sat there, discussing Spiff’s need for a new body, while behind the vet the photocopiers whirred and flashed.
Then it got weird. You see, I had Spiff’s head in my jacket pocket, just stuffed in there like a baseball. Worse, it was starting to leak water, as if it had been frozen and was thawing out. Oddly, the scene didn’t feel macabre — just weird and I was annoyed that my pocket was so wet. I was thinking “I should have put it in a sandwich bag.”
Some swirly dream stuff happened that I don’t quite remember, and the next thing you know we’re home and Spiff has been put back together again. The surgery seemed to have worked, and his new body was remarkably similar to his old one. Everything was fine except he had a weird limp when he walked, as if his spinal cord hadn’t been hooked to his new body quite right.