I never dream about theater. Like never. Or anything normal frankly. My friends have nightmares about their exes or losing their jobs or all of their teeth falling out. I don’t dream about those things. I dream strange, creepy, sometimes mythical dreams. Dreams in which, for instance, my best friend’s dad is coming over to meet my mother and thinks it’ll be a great joke to pretend to eat my cat. Whole. And after putting her in his mouth and pretending to chew (bringing my mother to near hysterics “He’s eating her! He’s eating her!”) he laughingly spits her out, only to reveal that she is now, though unharmed, six inches long with brilliantly red fur and black little paws.
Yes. I really had this dream – and in the connecting dream, after pretending to eat my cat, Mr. Sherman (or Agent Sherman I should say, my superior officer in the CIA) and I flew a prop plane over the Grand Canyon and dive bombed in our search for some wayward teenagers setting off explosives. Clearly, something is loose in the ole noggin.
So imagine my surprise and delight when I had a good old “I can’t remember any of my lines and I’m about to go on stage” nightmare last night! And even though I woke up at 7am with anxious knots in my stomach, I drifted back off to sleep again, relieved to know that I’m capable of something resembling normal brain function.
A few hours later I awoke to the soothing sounds of a waterfall. In my kitchen. This unfortunately, was not a dream. For the past few hours water has been dripping out of cabinets, seeping out of electrical sockets, and verily cascading out of the light fixture in the ceiling. Wow, that makes me feel safe. Apparently there are real life consequences for not dreaming freaky.
No comments:
Post a Comment