Last night, thanks in part to ongoing GI disruption (including serial outbreaks of flatulence that sounded like the Trumps of Doom a’blowing) I slept pretty fitfully. Lorazepam can only do so much, after all. This led to dreams, as such things do. It’s all fragments now, but among other things…
A comic book dream (in six-panel pages with color inking and hand lettering) about Salman Rushdie in the 22nd century, on extended geriatric life support, discussing his experiences in the 20th and 21st centuries. It looked like it was drawn by the late Moebius and read like it was written by Jeff VanderMeer on a cough syrup bender. Also notable: I’m not much of a comics fan, and I’ve never dreamt in six-panel pages before in my life, so far as I know.
A talking dream wherein Lisa Costello,
A driving dream involving oddly modified versions of my beloved and long-gone 1975 Cadillac Eldorado convertible, a/k/a “Large Marge” or “The Big Car” (those were my plates, Texas BIG*CAR) and
Anyway, I have woken up to relative digestive silence, other than the incessant fundamental bugling. We shall see what the day brings. I have abandoned my plan to see The Hobbit in 48fps today, given my ongoing digestive issues.
At any rate, today cannot possibly be as interesting as my dreams were last night.
God, I hope not.