I've been keeping a dream diary of sorts lately, since for a while I've been having some vivid (and bizarre) somatic episodes.
I haven't made any major effort to analyze them, other than to try to correlate details with things that may have happened in the previous 24 hours - apparently dreams are the subconcious's way of 'tidying up' unresolved thought processes and fragments, by presenting them in a manner that may have passing meaning to the owner.
Or something like that - I tended to tune out whenever J'onn or Kent were trying to explain it.
Anyhow, here's a sampling of what's been rattling around in my head these past months - where possible, I'll supply notes to counterpoint the surrealism:
1. I'm cycling, downhill, without brakes or a seatbelt. I don't know where I'm going or, indeed, coming from. In the face of oncoming traffic, I manage to get onto a sliproad that goes uphill, and I stop in a village that for some reason I believe to be Rathangan (I don't even know what county that's in, or if I've ever been there in real life).
I stop to ask a woman for directions - she has a child that looks like a cross between Ike Broflovski from 'South Park' and a Minion. The child wanders out onto the road. I dive, scooping him up and tossing him back onto the grass. He goes higher than intended and lands on his head, but seems unharmed and happy.
The woman thanks me and offers me a lift. We go to her car, in which a man (bearded, with a hat) and another woman sit. I get in on the right, where the front passenger seat is, and the second woman drives to the middle of 'town' - a distance of approximately 100 metres. I get out; my bicycle has disappeared. I set off for the train station, only to hear my name being called. I return to the car, where the second woman tells me my father has phoned, and he's arriving on the bus from Kilmallock to meet me.
When he arrives, we both go back to Kilmallock, where he has left his car, so we can drive back.
(Note: My family lives in Dublin, as do I - I have no idea why any of us would travel to Kilmallock, let alone leave a car there)
2. I'm in a car (again) with several women. We're discussing the classic '7 Deadly Sins' and Ethics, in spirited fashion. The women are not nuns, and are all, it must be said, quite attractive, in a Keira Knightley sort of way.
The car is a blue and silver convertible, rather square, and at one point I ask who's driving. Everyone seems to think I am. We stop, and go to a bar.
The barman, a jovial fellow, asks if I'm Jim Rockford. I ask whether Jim has a tab; the barman says no, so I confirm that I'm not him.
After not, apparently, having anything to drink, we get back in the car and drive to a convent, where, seemingly, the ladies are going to show me instances of some of the deadlier sins. Still no clue who's driving.
The convent is largely deserted. I see no 'uniformed' nuns, but encounter a woman, who turns out to be the Reverend Mother, admiring her reflection in a large mirror. I say something about the deadly Sin of Pride, but she counters with the somewhat deadlier Sin of Arson, and I realize that the convent is on fire. Grabbing the nun, I dive headfirst through the mirror, which turns out to be a window.
Outside, it's bright and sunny; the grass is warm.
Looking around, I see no sign of the nun, the convent, the Keira Knightleys or the car we arrived in.
Having nothing better to do, I woke up...
(I've got nothing here - no traumatic encounters with nuns, nor random ones with Keira Knightley or burning convents. As to the deadly sins, probably best I keep that to myself...)
3. I'm in a hotel suite, preparing to take a shower, when Room Service arrives with breakfast. While it's being set up, M arrives with a number of my nephew's friends, who eat all the Tayto and make sandwiches with raw beef (or maybe carpaccio).
I quickly wake up...
('M' in this case is not James Bond's boss, but the initial of a friend and colleague who might like to remain anonymous - who knows who reads this stuff?)
4. I arrive at a house to find my parents, siblings and a group of unknown, hostile people, all with wineglasses in hand (the strangers, not the family).
It seems my family are being evicted, despite owning the house. A Jack Hackett-looking guy stands by the open door as they leave, a mirthful grin on his mad, whiskered face.
I pick something from the floor. It's a small, engraved silver disc on a ring. I hang it on a board covered with similar items.
"What's that?" sneers a chinless man, as the others laugh.
"Something my brother made - it belongs here," I tell him, an edge in my voice.
"Who are you?" he demands, brave with wine and numbers.
"Someone who owns this house - and we'll be back," I assure him, as we leave.
I arrange to meet the family later, then take the reins of a horse (a bay named Target) and mount. A small child looks up and raises his arms to be picked up. Not knowing what he'll face if left behind, I lean down and pick him up, sitting him in front of me on the saddle.
We set off down the drive, passing Alexandra on the way. She looks sad, but says nothing.
Trying to find the child's family, we travel around the area, but find nothing but ruined buildings and swimming pools. Target and the kid insist on going swimming, and appear to have fun. I have trouble with the concept of a talking horse, but keep it to myself lest I appear insensitive.
After awhile, we go to meet my family. I leave Target and the kid with them and return to our house with my father.
The old, whiskered guy, whose name turns out to be 'P.J.' lets us into the house, then produces a Colt Peacemaker and some ear protectors. He checks the gun is loaded, then asks me to stand a tin can on a post fifty feet away. I do so, turning as he raises the gun and fires, narrowly missing both me and the can. I grab him and take the gun away, then usher him back into the house while my father calls the police.
They arrive, and a search reveals a combat shotgun, a musket, and something that could be an AK-47 but is mostly concealed by a sheet. The cops take PJ away, plus the guns (but not the Colt), and the house is mine once again.
Satisfied, I wake up...
(Notes: I know I was watching a documentary about evictions following the property crash, so that fits pretty well with the content. I don't know anyone called Alexandra, though.)
So there you have it - a look into the subconscious of me. Now I see it on the screen, there's a possibility that a psychologist might diagnose a hero complex, but other than that (and an acknowledged fondness for Keira Knightley) I don't think I've much to worry about...