My wife tells me I should write down my dreams. This is because they are so weird, and she assumes that this is why I am weird. Or is it the other way around? At any rate, here are a couple from the last few nights.
- The Case of the Invisible Woman. I am sitting on the floor, there are perhaps 30 of us, and we are listening to someone who is sitting on a chair in front of us talking about something. Next to me is a woman I know (not that I really know, and not that I have any idea who she is). We talk. Then the Invisible Woman comes up and sits next to me. The Invisible Woman is a friend of mine, whom no one can see or hear but for me. She and I have a lot to talk about but I don’t want to leave out the woman with whom I have been talking (by the way, the Invisible Woman and the woman next to me look very much the same; they might be clones of either other – if you can have double, reverse cloning – probably not). So I ask the Invisible Woman if she can make herself visible to the woman next to me, but only for as long as we are sitting there. She readily agrees, and suddenly out of absolutely nowhere and nothing, a woman appears to the woman sitting next to me. She looks at her with a look of quizzical amazement, and falls unconscious.
- The Case of the Trip to India. I want to go to India on a trip with my wife. I remember that there was an Indian woman who used to work in my office building who left and became a travel agent. I go into her office expecting to find someone small and bare bones, but instead a find a bustling office with maybe 20 people sitting at desks, presumably all travel agents, helping customers. I am escorted to one of them – an attractive young Indian woman. I explain what I am looking for. She seems uncertain, but after some mumbling goes into her desk and gives me a colorful brochure. Colorful but not intelligible. A jumble. Eventually I see it is an advertisement for trips to Brindia – trips that start in India and end in Britain. Not what I want. The woman apologizes, and it occurs to me that maybe she doesn’t know how to arrange trips to India. “Do you do something else here?”, I ask. She gives me a “wouldn’t you like to know” look, just as I see four men in strange military uniforms (khaki with a lot of deep red trim in unexpected places) walk through the agency from the front door to a door in back. I look at my saleswoman, who now gives me a “don’t even think about asking” look. The woman apologizes again and asks me to follow her. She leads me to another desk. We both sit down. There are four fairly small, but complex, jigsaw puzzles on the desk. She breaks all four into their small pieces, and mixes them together in a big basket. She then scoops a few large handfuls of basmati rice into the mixed up puzzle pieces. She hands me the filled basket and says “Come back when you finish putting together these puzzles. Perhaps then I will treat you with somewhat more respect.”