I rarely remember my dreams, and when I do, they are mostly snatches of disjointed images or scenes that make absolutely no sense. (I once dreamed that I was pulling a string coated in tuna salad out of my ass. No lie. There has to be something just a little “off” there, right?) Sometimes they incorporate things that have happened in my life recently, like when I boarded Rollo at a kennel for the weekend and then dreamed that I couldn’t find him. Another time, I dreamed that my ex-husband was building a bomb in my bedroom closet out of a power strip. A few days before I had this dream, I’d been reading Stephen King’s “On Writing,” where he describes writing a chapter of “The Stand” in which a character builds a bomb in a closet. I’d also had some drama at work involving a dead power strip. (This is called the dream lag effect, and is fairly common.)
Every once in awhile, though, I have a dream that makes me go, “Hmm….” Two such occasions come to mind.
When I was about 30, I had a dream about a friend from high school. John moved away during our senior year, and I had neither seen nor heard from him in the 13 years since he’d left. In the dream, we were making out on a couch at a party in someone’s basement. (No, we were never *those* kinds of friends in real life.) I woke up thinking, “Well, that was odd.” I hadn’t even thought about him in years. Less than a week later, I got an email from him.
The second dream happened much more recently, and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow….
(Ha ha….sorry, but I’ve got to come up with 30 blogs this month!)