2003-10-06 - 7:07 p.m.
Amateur psychoanalysts, you are invited to see what you can do with this, the strangest dream I had last night, which may be revealing of some inner workings of my brain (although, you know, not necessarily), and may just mean it's time to get the ol' head examined:I live in a spacious basement suite with a roommate whose face I never see (this is a familiar dream signifier for me, the nameless entity who functions as a device only, an extra in the role of my friend). It is my birthday, and my unseen roommate has decided to throw me a party, but for some reason all that he invites are homeless people -- cheerful derelicts I do not know who merrily mingle and wander around the living room, taking no particular notice of me. I'm not disappointed or anything -- just deeply confused.... Cut suddenly to a radically different scene, to what I am aware at the time is a sort of "followup" birthday party, presumably because my unseen roommate feels bad for inviting only homeless strangers the last time. This time the party takes place in a vast network of connected rooms, each a sort of dark, eerie concrete wasteland that is half construction site, half back-alley set for a movie. I spend much time travelling from room to room, greeting the many colourful guests, but only two of them end up drawing my interest enough for me to spend any time with them. In one room, I meet Kurt Russell... but he keeps telling everyone his name is Kevin Kostner (not a typo -- he insists to me it starts with a K), and he keeps leaving the conversation to hand out little store-bought packages of cigars and cigarettes to all the other guests which he has sloppily hand-monogrammed and which he claims are his creation. He adopts an air of distance when I try to imply that he's using a false name.... So I leave this eerie room and enter another eerie room, where I meet a homunculus named Harrison Ford who I am aware really is Mr. Han Solo etc. but whom I am surprised to discover is only around four and a half feet tall. He keeps buying me drinks and slapping me on the back, laughing at jokes I do not share with him, but I respond cheerfully so that I will not hurt his feelings.... Then I leave Mr. Ford's company, and wander to another eerie room, and then promptly wake up.
I don't know either, folks. I was basically convinced of my sanity, and then that little gem oozed out of my subconscious and onto the dream-stage, and now I wonder.
Incidentally, if you go here, you'll learn that in fact Harrison Ford is no homunculus. He's six foot tall, which means that while not a puny man at all, if I should ever happen to meet him I will still get to enjoy that Guy Satisfaction that only comes with realizing you're the taller one. Take that, Indiana Jones.
