(no subject)
I don’t dream, as a rule. When I do, they tend to have a strong narrative arc, and feature people I know in real life. I usually write them down.
Disclaimer time: “You dream, but you don’t recall them!” invariably responds some tiresome pedant, with all the inevitability of death, taxes, and being shafted by a Conservative government. Yes, I know. Everyone knows. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t know this, and yet there’s always some boring cunt who has to flap their chops and state the commonly known in an attempt to appear more sophisticated than whoever they’re talking to. Be quiet.
A “dream” is defined as “a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep” - a product of the neurobiological phenomenon of REM sleep. So while I do undoubtedly have healthy periods of REM sleep each night, they don’t necessarily produce “dreams” in me personally, and since I do not experience whatever my brain is doing to itself during the night (and when I dream, I do experience them in real time - they’re not only something I recall afterwards; indeed, I frequently struggle to do so), they (from the perspective of my individual perception of reality) haven’t happened.
Anyway, the first dream I made a note of was on the night of Sunday 17th/Monday 18th October, and it concerned a tribe of large, sentient furry penguins who lived in the alleys around Congleton library - because they die when exposed to direct sunlight - and wanted myself and yourapocalypse to come and look at a problem they were having with their mixer.
He had the mixer off its mounting and was looking at the bottom of it, but I’d been buttonholed by a bunch of male tribespenguins who were asking me technical questions about fencing. Our friendly wee female guide came scampering over to “rescue” me when she ran through a stray beam of sunlight and was promptly horribly injured. I was kneeling over her, cursing my ignorance of penguin anatomy and trying to work out whether she’d live when I woke up. Her parents weren’t impressed.
What dreams I have are never usually quite that abstract. I’ve wondered if the new medication has had anything to do with it.
Quote of the Day:
“Ratchet-jawed purveyors of monkey-doodle and baked wind, piddlers upon merit, beggars at the door of accomplishment, thieves of livelihood, envy-coddling tax-lice applauding themselves for giving away other people’s money, muck-dwelling bottom-feeders growing fat on the worries and disappointments of the electorate.”
- P.J. O’Rourke, on politicians, in Don’t Vote - It Only Encourages the Bastards
Disclaimer time: “You dream, but you don’t recall them!” invariably responds some tiresome pedant, with all the inevitability of death, taxes, and being shafted by a Conservative government. Yes, I know. Everyone knows. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t know this, and yet there’s always some boring cunt who has to flap their chops and state the commonly known in an attempt to appear more sophisticated than whoever they’re talking to. Be quiet.
A “dream” is defined as “a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep” - a product of the neurobiological phenomenon of REM sleep. So while I do undoubtedly have healthy periods of REM sleep each night, they don’t necessarily produce “dreams” in me personally, and since I do not experience whatever my brain is doing to itself during the night (and when I dream, I do experience them in real time - they’re not only something I recall afterwards; indeed, I frequently struggle to do so), they (from the perspective of my individual perception of reality) haven’t happened.
Anyway, the first dream I made a note of was on the night of Sunday 17th/Monday 18th October, and it concerned a tribe of large, sentient furry penguins who lived in the alleys around Congleton library - because they die when exposed to direct sunlight - and wanted myself and yourapocalypse to come and look at a problem they were having with their mixer.
He had the mixer off its mounting and was looking at the bottom of it, but I’d been buttonholed by a bunch of male tribespenguins who were asking me technical questions about fencing. Our friendly wee female guide came scampering over to “rescue” me when she ran through a stray beam of sunlight and was promptly horribly injured. I was kneeling over her, cursing my ignorance of penguin anatomy and trying to work out whether she’d live when I woke up. Her parents weren’t impressed.
What dreams I have are never usually quite that abstract. I’ve wondered if the new medication has had anything to do with it.
Quote of the Day:
“Ratchet-jawed purveyors of monkey-doodle and baked wind, piddlers upon merit, beggars at the door of accomplishment, thieves of livelihood, envy-coddling tax-lice applauding themselves for giving away other people’s money, muck-dwelling bottom-feeders growing fat on the worries and disappointments of the electorate.”
- P.J. O’Rourke, on politicians, in Don’t Vote - It Only Encourages the Bastards