Thursday, January 28, 2010


Probably dream every night, but just don't remember it. Since getting back from France this last time, though, have been remembering an awful lot of long (meaning movie length), coherent ones where I can actually follow the plot and figure out the source material for certain elements. For example: maybe four nights ago, the dream was a pastiche of various nasty things from the old job intermingled with scenes from Julien Sorel's first attendance at the de la Mole salon. (I was Julien, of course. Certain members of upper management were the courtiers. Instead of mid 21st century office furniture from Approved Dealers, the office was decorated in Second Empire style. Makes sense, actually.) Another dream from a week ago was my mind clearly hashing over how I was going to struggle through my mother's taxes.

These have been interesting, but not so interesting as the dreams I had over the past couple nights. The stories weren't much, but a new sense was introduced: taste. I was actually eating and enjoying what I was eating - the textures, the flavors, everything. Even remembered what I'd wanted so badly that I had to imagine it. The first night, it was fried chicken. Real fried chicken like a friend's mom used to make with seasoned flour and milk and served with mustard greens. It was perfect, too - just the right texture, fresh, not too salty, not greasy at all. The greens were a nice, bitter counterpoint to the chicken's buttery-ness.

Last night, I dreamed that my father and I went to an Italian pastry shop in Buffalo, I think, though people were paying in Euros. I was trying to decide between torta di ricotta and some sort of pecan pie thing. Ended up with this amazing chocolate cheesecake with preserved cherries on top. Actually woke up chewing and salivating.

The funny thing about both these lovely new experiences was that I don't much care for fried chicken or rich pastries in my awake life. Wonder why the brain chose them to get excited over?

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