On this blog I have written about interrogators and torture, Vietnam, my cat, and my son, and then I dreamt about them. A foreigner was being interrogated in Vietnam while my son and I observed the proceedings. Fortunately, the interrogation was painless, and the Vietnamese interrogator was soft-spoken, urbane, and an all-around nice guy. He uncrinkled a big blue plastic map (it looked and sounded like the poncho I wear when peddling my bike in the rain) and asked where he had landed. The man was immediately transformed into my cat–don’t we wish we could take sudden changes in our lives with the same aplomb as we do in dreams?–and pawed at the general area of Laos.
Then my cat traced its route along a river to a fork, and followed the fork heading south into Vietnam. I told the interrogator that the cat’s story was entirely plausable because I could teach a cat to distinguish left and right forks in a river. This dream didn’t have much emotional content, but the next one about a fellow blogger did:
A beautiful red-head in a blue satin dress gushed that the night before and before her very eyes little notches suddenly appeared in the lid of an opened tin of tuna, and that it was a clear sign that I must certainly have written a story parrallel to her own on her blog–which I hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to say anything. Because she was so flattered by my effort, she was ready to desert her older middle-aged boyfriend (with thick wavy black hair standing off to the side) for me. I took her in my arms and said, “First blush is first blush, darling, but I’m older than your boyfriend.” She immediately turned into a piece of two-dimensional cardboard, and as her boyfriend carried her off the stage he gnashed his teeth at me and said, “I’m not a hundred years old.” Dork.
I haven’t dreamt about the Rapture yet, or making deals with the devil, or my death, or eating gallons of ice cream–but maybe I will. Wouldn’t it be nice to dream about everything you write? Then we could all write within a very limited range of topics, such as deserted isles with beautiful girls.
I sloshed my way through the surf, exhausted, and up on the beach, and caught a glimpse of them, hundreds of them, sloe-eyed and shy, hiding among the palm trees and in the grasses…