dream journal

Had a dream. Little hard to describe since the dream had not a plot, but a place: The River.

From the air, I could see the River, curving fat and slow across a great plain, the sun glinting off the turbid water. At every curve you found a town, centers of the surrounding farmland. In between the towns swam the boats choogly.


I saw the steamboats, not like sidepaddlers of our own history. I saw a line of them: barges with boilers on them, looked like furnaces, with great bronze screws, choog-choog-choog, half-in and half-out of the water. Which makes for massive cavitation and poor performance (hence the choogly sound), but that was not a problem. They were slow, but they connected the towns. No one was in a hurry.

Between the towns the steam-boats carried goods and passengers, choog-choog-choog, and the boat-men got a little change in their pockets, singing in the sun.

On the river ran the boats, town to town, and I saw the River, the people of the River. They were happy. It was a lovely dream, because they all were happy.


The dream last night: our family awoke on a bright Saturday morning (in not our real life house). Everyone was happy and yelling. I went downstairs to make breakfast, only to find our 8yrold son playing with his toys in the living room. Which was odd, because I had just seen him upstairs, and could even hear his voice behind me.

I surmised this was a malevolent spirit that had taken his form. I immediately went to the thing, prayed over it, made the sign of the Cross, and ordered it in the name of Jesus Christ to seek the mercy of God and go to Heaven.

At this point, my son came down the stairs. When he saw me talking to his doppelganger, he was understandably upset. I assured him everything was going to be all right.

The thing left–not to Heaven, but out the back door, complaining vociferously all the while. I was happy with the end of the interaction, but uneasy that it had occurred at all.

Last night that candy-colored clown they call the Sandman brought me: the beginning of a new Buckaroo Banzai film.

Perfect Tommy was in the desert, pursuing psychogeology, searching for quartzite veins. Across an exposed rock face, weathered arches of stone, he had outlined the veins with black Sharpie marker, wrote little notes next to them.

“Did the minds of the inhabitants affect the formation of the veins, or vice versa?” asked Buckaroo.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” answered Perfect Tommy.

An alert came in. Fissile material was on the loose. Buckaroo and Perfect Tommy reported to the Banzai Institute Supertrain, a rolling fortress. A conference was called in the briefing car. Buckaroo was sure he knew the responsible parties. The enemy was there, and he would strike at him. A Blue Blaze heavy weapons team, bulky in rubbery new battle armor, scrambled for the attack.

Perfect Tommy knew Buckaroo was mistaken. Deep in his past lay a terrible secret that gave him insight Buckaroo didn’t have. He wanted to say something, but Buckaroo had a full head of steam up, filled with righteous hubris. Besides: how do you tell Buckaroo Banzai he’s wrong?

And that’s where I woke up. I like to think in some other world, this film exists. I don’t plan to write any more of it. I like it just as it is.