the internal inconsistency of dreams

I've started keeping a dream journal. At first the results were sketchy at best but I've finally started remembering them and writing down details and one thing has stuck out to me: my dreams are not, in fact, internally consistent. Just lately I had a dream where I was driving a car (and a modern car, at that). Later on we were loading up our horses and--I remember this clearly--at this point my consciousness revolted and said, "These dreams have no internal consistency! I should be driving a car! We don't use horses anymore!"

My subconscious resisted my consciousness's attempt at guiding the dream back into internal consistency. It decided that this was the ideal time to make the dream genre fiction set in a steampunk world. It has become evident to me that my subconscious is willing to peddle any lie, so long as it doesn't have to admit it's wrong.

smile

I once had a friend tell me I was always smiling. She said it looked like something was wrong if I wasn't. I thought that was odd, because I don't smile very often--and I forgot about it for months and now it's bothering me. Maybe something is wrong. Maybe she saw me for one of those few moments something wasn't wrong.

I've started keeping a log of when I smile. The last time was Sunday, 14 October, 2007, 23:43. I smiled several times that weekend. Nothing since then. Sometimes I try. I'll smile in the mirror--those don't count, of course. It doesn't look right. There's something missing. I can't make it look right when I smile but I know something's wrong when I don't.

Lately I'm starting to wonder if I've ever seen myself when I'm smiling. I'm working on it.

dreams of drowning in paper

Work on Thursday: paycheck.
Trip to the bank Friday, before work: cash, deposit slip (discarded).
Lunch break (fast food), Friday: receipt (discarded), change.
Dinner Friday night: receipt (signed, returned with tip, customer copy discarded), napkin (used, discarded).
A birthday party Saturday night: sticky note (with directions, discarded), scrap of old paper (with phone number, given away).
Breakfast Sunday morning: receipt (signed, returned with tip, customer copy discarded), napkin (with poem, left for the waitress).
Lazy on a Sunday afternoon: notebook paper (trying to recall the same poem), journal (fiction, the same poem).
Returning home from work Monday: junk mail (discarded), bank statements (tossed aside, ultimately discarded), a personal letter (disappointed at return address, read briefly, forgotten).

the impossibility of ignoring dreams

All it took was some whispered advice from someone I never trusted anyway to get me started on the dreams again. I have heard the tired speeches from Shakespeare and I agree, I agree--but I am a man desperate for the beautiful, am I not? Yes, yes, I am nearly certain I am wrong, fueled only by wishful thinking--but if I am right?

I have no plan for that eventuality. So let it happen! A fleeting glance, a tap on the shoulder, a smile, and the hand-off. And then I must plot a course past my dreams.