Last night I had one of my more-frequent-than-I-would-like "terrorism dreams". It basically involved my hanging around the office of the Chicago Reader deperately trying to get neighborhood news and following AP wire reports as my whole beautiful city tumbled to dust and smoke around me. It was a dream that really tore me up emotionally, left me shaken and full of dread -- and then, of course, I wake up to the news that my country's soldiers have hucked a rocket right into the heart of a mosque during services. Man, I tell you. I don't have the time or the inclination to go into a big political tirade, but this fucking president has got to go.
Anyway, one thing I found interesting about the dream is that I essentially talked myself out of it. My dream-self, through goodness knows what lunatic, pointless act of will on behalf of my unconscious mind, started to notice that there were little inconsistencies in what was happening -- we could see the Marina Towers and the Tribune Tower going up in smoke and falling to wreckage, but we couldn't hear anything even though we were right down the street. We weren't being hit, even though every tall building in Chicago was tumbling down. The AP reports kept referring to "aerial bombardment", but I could see or hear any planes being used either as delivery vectors for weapons or as weapons themselves -- the buildings seemed to be toppling and exploding all by themselves. Oddly, though, it wasn't that sensation that you get in dreams sometimes where you know it's a dream and you just gradually wake up; the 'reality' of the dream continued, and I was still asleep, so my dream-self became convinced that the whole city was undergoing some sort of mass hypnosis.
Talking about dreams, I know, is the temple of boredom, but I continue to be intrigued by the narrative tricks my mind can pull off when I'm not paying attention. On bolting awake some time later, I was hit with a mix of fear and fascination. (Also, because I'm a comics geek, I flashed on the excellent issue of "Miracleman" where MM's sleeping mind begins to rebel against the dreams it's being fed, resulting in agonizing minutes of panic and horror until his keepers come up with an elegant solution. Alan Moore's mystical philosophy is baffling and a bit annoying to me, but the man knows better than most 'real' authors the incredible power of the unconscious mind.)
Anyway, the whole thing left me feeling uncertain and wobbly, and now I'm stuck with only one conclusion: I wish my DVD player had a 'sleep' function.
This conclusion brought to you by the American Non Sequitur Foundation. The ANSF: for when you remember you need to buy paper towels.