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I have got to stop falling asleep with the light on. It's easier than it sounds--I read in bed before going to sleep, after all--and occasionally if I'm really tired or just not paying attention, turning out the light is the last thing on my mind.
And the dreams are weird. They're long, they're coherent, they have a definite storyline if not always a sensible one. This one involved walking around a mostly empty version of Ottawa with streets three times as wide as normal and a lot more slopes and accessible green spaces than it actually has[1], having a kind of comfortable slowly-unwinding discussion while looking for a place that would serve roaches in palmetto sauce, and explaining the theory that dragons are slowly devolving into birds[2]. It was November 12th, Monday, and Mudmen were playing that night and the next, in a couple of places like the one I only saw once when I went to London (Ontario) to check out Western. I know because we ended up spotting a weird green and beige kind of deco-y poster about it, pasted up to a telephone pole on the empty grey streets.
And even when they're perfectly prosaic dreams (I mean, Jesus, it's not like I don't walk around and have weird converstations in real life), they're really really unsettling. None of which is being adequately conveyed at the moment, so I'm giving it up as a bad job and going back to bed.
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[1] In fact, about what you'd expect if you cross biking around the dawn-time throughfares of Ottawa with my experience of Ohio, which largely involves big rooms, high ceilings, and escalators. Funny, that.
[2] Ridiculous. Everyone knows they come from cats.
And the dreams are weird. They're long, they're coherent, they have a definite storyline if not always a sensible one. This one involved walking around a mostly empty version of Ottawa with streets three times as wide as normal and a lot more slopes and accessible green spaces than it actually has[1], having a kind of comfortable slowly-unwinding discussion while looking for a place that would serve roaches in palmetto sauce, and explaining the theory that dragons are slowly devolving into birds[2]. It was November 12th, Monday, and Mudmen were playing that night and the next, in a couple of places like the one I only saw once when I went to London (Ontario) to check out Western. I know because we ended up spotting a weird green and beige kind of deco-y poster about it, pasted up to a telephone pole on the empty grey streets.
And even when they're perfectly prosaic dreams (I mean, Jesus, it's not like I don't walk around and have weird converstations in real life), they're really really unsettling. None of which is being adequately conveyed at the moment, so I'm giving it up as a bad job and going back to bed.
---
[1] In fact, about what you'd expect if you cross biking around the dawn-time throughfares of Ottawa with my experience of Ohio, which largely involves big rooms, high ceilings, and escalators. Funny, that.
[2] Ridiculous. Everyone knows they come from cats.