Hopper Dreams

Had a lot of weird vignettes overnight.  Weird like Three's Company meets Salvador Dali.  Common, every day events (for normal people, maybe not so much for me) wrung through the lens of a Christopher Nolan philosophical film.  One segment flowed into the next, no segment subjectively lasting longer than a few minutes, though the night flew by and I only woke up once, after a full six hours of slumber.

Highlights:  The wife and I decide to go out for Indian (!) food, wind up with turkey and cheese sandwiches, and meet Dwight Schrute there.  Shyly, I chat him up about how The Rocker is the greatest movie ever made, and make a slight fool of myself.  Then I'm pursued through shadowy, Kafka-esque labyrinths, wind up on the town high school football field during a fall festival.  Something's hinky, though, and my hunch of something wicked - a diabolical cross between Alien chestbursters and Body Snatchers pod people - thankfully goes unresolved as I'm now racing off in a Buck Rogers rocket car at night, burning grooves into tree-lined, white-picket-fenced Americana streets, damning a malfunctioning GPS as I'm panicking I'm going to miss my daughter's final appearance in the Final Four game at some undisclosed big city arena.

And on, and on, and on.

I was a spy in a movie (participating in a movie is a big dream theme with me), with good women, bad women, and all the requisite fistfighting, though that part's now hazy.  A non-connected rumble with spiked baseball bats, a la Escape from New York, followed.  That's vague, too, flushed down the memory hole.  Other bits and pieces, vivid when the alarm went off, self-promised to remember while in the shower, are now scattered to the aether.

Oh well.  There's always tonight ...