Well, if this page is a good example of what happens when I post the details of weird dreams, then I should definitely start hitting the applesauce every night. Bilby, I love the way you limn chained_bear, and your bilby-babble fills me with joy... strange, slightly worried joy.
Indeed. But back to pterodactyl's vision. I'm reasonably sure that chained_bear is not my mother, although who knows what she got up to with cousin Kev Koala all those years ago. Of course she's a mother figure to me, what with her stately court of cowering minions, the blinding light of her beauty smiting all and sundry, and the glorious regalia of her flowing Kilt of Squopped Winks and her Crown of Fewmets. The malt of third is the other interesting bit ... is a tad bilby-babblish ... can't recall ... somewhere a switch was glicking in flimmer ... oh the fruit, hard to get proper sketches of mangosteen hydraulics anywhere these days ... strike me black with a timber stack ... pressure's dropping in the amber mule ... flapping like a scandalmonger's tongue ... a thankful turkey, an image jerky, an alarm clock hiking to Albuquerque ... arf, arf ... I can has ineluctability ... it's all in the business cards, frankily ... 3 blind rats, do I know where this is going? Drats! ... appointment in diary with the UnderSecretary of Phraseology ... Aunt Joyce had a crocheted face if I recall ... ba doop da doop, JAZZ! ... sticky notes are actually glue: lives, memories, desks ... draw a dray with a dram, ma'am ... yipes, gazonked again, mustta been that last malt o' third, just a third he said me mateys, but it's that third what does ya ...
Blahaha! Dat weird stuff you bin smokin', honey chile. Mall is pronounced to rhyme with either ball or pal in Australia, both of which make me uncomfortable; the first because it reminds of maul (hence rugby *yawn*, animals with sharp claws *ouch*, etc.), the second because it's flat, crass and feels like a lobotomised bit of malapropism. My simple solution is to avoid saying mall at all. I don't even drawl mall. At all. Oh, I writemall. But ... ssshhhh! My town has a central pedestrian mall - very pedestrian come to think of it - known, with our wan flair for nomenclature as The Mall. If I have to meet someone there I'll try to work around it. e.g. Grusha: Hi. Bilby: Hi Grusha. We meeting for lunch? G: Sure. Where do you want to go? B: Somewhere in the ... *mumbles* G: Where? B: Uhhh. How about Monty's? G: In the mall? B: Yep. G: Fine, see you there at 12.
That concludes instalment 1 of my thoughts about ptero's dream.
I've had a few memorable dreams that involve writing a book, or play, and the plot of the dream (for want of a better term) morphs into an activity that involves certain death at the end, yet I/we must persist in our activity, because we simply must, and I wake up feeling completely creeped out and unwilling to fall asleep ever again.
The oath is uncannily Patrick O'Brien-ish. I've had a few wordie dreams. I also sometimes have entire dreams in the form of novels, i.e. my dream consists of me reading a fictional novel, turning the pages, seeing how the plot unfolds, etc. In these dream-novels I sometimes encounter strange words, and think "I must cite that on wordie when I wake up", but when I wake up I've usually forgotten the citation.
I had my first Wordie dream last night. But it wasn't a dream. It was a place, and you and you and you... and you were there.
It honestly just involved me sitting at the computer and being involved in a spirited Wordie conversation. And then some other non-Wordie stuff happened, but that's not important. But I wish I remember what we were talking about, it was fascinating.
I was visited in a dream by sionnach last night. After constructing a decorative arrangement of cats on my sofa and inventing mock-Gaelic names for every utensil in my kitchen draw, he proceeded to dictate me a meta-list of lists I will make between now and the mid-winter solstice. When I queried this hitherto hidden talent of clairvoyancy he replied: "Blairvoyancy, a blindman's bluff of a novel about a British Prime Minister who has a vision that ten years in the top job will turn him into a poncy, fecaloid smellsmock, but does it anyway."