The account was provided, ghod help me, by Doctor Who (tenth, I believe).
More to the point, said account was but a digression in a much longer narrative, akin in some small way, to the final hundred pages of War and Peace only less annoying and much less long.
Completely to the point, since I've been writing (as opposed to blogging, or talking about writing; as of yesterday, the word-count stands at 19,057 - or 18,046, it you don't count the HTML encoding), my dreams have been growing increasingly complex, increasingly coherent, and consistently sillier, whimsical even, despite their linear narrative qualities.
I won't go into details about this morning's dream, both because one's dreams tend to bore the shit out of other people and especially because writing the above four paragraphs has driven most of the details from my mind. Suffice it to say, the elements included my mother as a secret agent-like figure, all competence and clever ploys; the pleasures of cycling in Toronto's Junction; shopping at No Frills; Dalek's - and a new CAR!
Dreams are madness, I tell you. Madness! But so much fun sometimes.
But I digress. I have a theory about the lightness of my dreams lately and how their recent happy nature may be tied up with the fact I have been writing again.
Oh. You want to hear about the theory? Well, why not.
It occurred to me, as I was typing the first few paragraphs above, and in so doing, driving out the details of my dream, that although I have had long moments of unhappiness and powerful feelings of loneliness recently, those feelings have all sprung from tangible causes. I.e., I've been lonely because I've been single for too long and because I haven't been making much of an effort to spend time with friends, those feelings hitting particularly emphasized over the holidays.
However, I haven't been suffering particularly for neurotic reasons, nor have I been "self-medicating" myself into a zombie stupor each and every night.
And so, being left without negative fuel, without neurotic misery to process, my dreams' only function (on the surface, at least; let's leave possible bio-chemical causes to one side) has lately been to entertain me while I slumber - and they've been doing a bang-up job.
Thank you, subconscious.
On another note entirely, it was with great, nerdly pleasure that I learned when I was last visiting my brother, that my brilliant and beautiful blond-haired niece has also become obsessed with the Good Doctor (Doctor Who, you fools, not Asimov!). So it was to me a wondrous joy to be able to provide her with a copy of this year's Christmas Special, and just as pleasurable to spend a couple of hours last night burning her the first two series of the "new" episodes.
As a bonus, I was able to include a four-parter from 1978 or 1979, "The Pirate Planet" staring Tom Baker and written by Douglas Adams! Much to my pleasure, it featured a battle between the Doctor's ridiculous mechanical dog, K-9, and a villains mechanical parrot.
It is through such sweet silliness that we are distinguished from the rest of the animal kingdom.
That is all.
Well no, it's not. I trust you all noted my previous entry, in which I correctly called the outcome of last night's Iowa Caucases.
Just crowin', that's all.