The past two nights I have had the strangest dreams. The content of them wasn’t all that strange, but the vividness of them and the lucidity certainly was.
Monday night, I think I wrote the sixth book in a series of mildly pulpy mysteries I’ve been reading in my dream. I followed the heroine of the series through her town, listened in on dialogue, watched as she discovered the murder then got involved in locating the killer…basically it was as if I had fallen into one of the novels and was as invisible as if I were still reading. Very odd. I even woke up during it, got out of bed, thought, “How bizarre,” got a drink and went back to bed picking up right where I’d left off. If I typed it up and sent it to the author think I could get a small percentage of the royalties? 🙂 And no, I’m not sharing who. It’s vaguely embarassing. I’ve been on a binge of junk novels for about two weeks.
Last night I dreamt that I was touring a townhouse that a friend was interested in buying. First I was pointing out that I thought it was more than she needed and not in the best location until we got to the second floor and we learned that half of that floor was the most amazing closet space I’d ever seen. Oh, and the third floor had an uninterrupted view of the ocean. Not sure how that happened in Fort Worth, but, whatever. I spent an incredible amount of time wandering through that townhouse debating the ethics of talking her out of it so I could buy it or at least seeing if I could live on the third floor and use part of that fantastic closet. I could probably draw you the floorplan now. AND, I also woke up during this dream, got out of bed, wondered why I was dreaming about this particular person, and came right back to it as soon as I fell back asleep.
Honestly, I promise I’m not eating pepperoni pizza just before bed. I don’t think buckwheat soba noodles and chicken in miso broth are known for their hallucinogenic qualities.