I'm a sticky dreamer. I think I remember all my dreams but obviously don't, because you don't know what you don't know. But it feels like I remember them all. I tend to wake up while still dreaming and then spend the day with the dream sticking to me—it feels literally like adherence, a tacky coating of some memory misted over my outside. You know how forensic investigators mist superglue over fingerprints these days? A sensation rather than an emotion. When something absolutely crazy is happening in real life, I think that lots of people start dreaming stickier. Dreaming is the original context for all of our words about pushing down a thought into the dark squish underfoot—or dreaming mixed with physics. "Sublimate," "channel." In the case of an ongoing war there's got to be something going on whereby people are refusing to think about it, refusing to talk about it out loud, and so even if a person is talking as much as they can in real life they are still absorbing the repression in the air. That's too refined a way to interpret this dream, however, and I'd like to scrape the superglue mist off the windscreen of my mind. It's also Danny's fault in part because nobody can remain unaffected by proximity to his method of processing the world through highly structured joke concepts. I was in the audience at an academic conference—a normal one, in a big square room. “I can’t speak to that," one of the scholars behind the table up front said in response to a question. “No can do.” The interesting thing about this dream (and its stickiest aspect) was not that I was attending a conference that fused 80s songs with clichés of academic communications but how gradually it dawned upon dream-me and how disdainful I was of the idea even while dreaming it. What kind of idiot would think of this, I thought in my dream chair. Professor so and so began a sentence with a rotten chestnut ("The ways in which...") and then bewilderingly concluded ("...I'm dying are the best I've ever had"). It's very normal to be at an academic conference and listen to people talking and go molten with rage inside, so the rage was a lot closer up to the forefront of the experience than the actual idiot jokes (“I wonder if you’ve read his mind but you’re frightened of the things you might find?”). I texted Danny for help with handling psychical punchline detritus and he just said 'lollll i love.' So I typed it into this box and now I feel a lot better.
We none of us have a choice but to face the week ahead xx