Last time I had a particularly dull, mundane dream, I used it as an excuse to post a Lynda Carter clip. That won't be happening this time, I assure you--Seriously, it won't! Put down those knives!--but I'm troubled by how amazingly uninteresting my subconscious mind appears to be.
I had yesterday off, so after waking ridiculously early as always and messing around for awhile, I treated myself to a nice nap. A good sleep, way into dream state, when WUMP! I'm suddenly awakened by the sound of Monika tipping over a speaker.
When a dream is suddenly interrupted, it's easier to recall. And in this case, I dreamed of Space Cowboys.
Yes, Space Cowboys, the watchable but utterly unremarkable Clint Eastwood picture from 2000. Even as a rabid Eastwood fan, I can't make any kind of case for that one, nor can I explain why, given complete freedom to roam where it will, the theater of my mind chose to play it back. Instead of visualizing sights unseen and worlds unimagined, I close my eyes and sit through a routine star vehicle.
True, my dream version of Space Cowboys was marginally more interesting than the real thing--instead of learning to pilot a space shuttle, Eastwood spent a lot of time alternately yelling and crying whenever he'd talk about his inability to maintain a relationship. Which, yes, sounds a lot like what I do. So perhaps this dream was really about myself?
Maybe, but why did I use this particular movie as the jumping-off point? If I'm going to use lesser Clint Eastwood movies as some sort of therapy, couldn't I have dreamed about The Eiger Sanction? Mountain climbing! Guns! Tiny dogs! The metaphorical possibilities are endless.
