(If my subject line is invoking your confused face, go here. As near as I can tell from the lack of posts on my flist this year, it was destined to be a one-time event.)

Thing What I Learned In A Dream: Our house is satisfactorily defensible against zombies. If not against random strangers showing up at a door in the attic (which doesn't actually exist) in search of shelter. No, I never found out how they got on the roof, either. We were a little busy.

Also, if you call 911 during a zombie attack? Apparently the call will go a lot like what happens when you call the power company and they already know your whole block is out...

Val: There are three men trying to break in the side door of my house.
Operator: Are you located in [particular area of Elgin], ma'am?
V: Yes.
O: Are they zombies?
V: *beat* Um... I think so?
O: We have officers working on it, ma'am.

My dreams tend toward the seriously batshit bizarre, especially when I'm doing a show. Atypically, I've remembered very few dreams of any kind in recent months. However, there was one I woke up from about 1:30 this morning with quite clear recall, and no small amusement.

I'm traveling to some sort of meeting -- the impression I retain is that it was in downtown Chicago, and theatre-related -- using an extended arrangement of escalators heading up and down and all around, either inside one large building or connecting several, I'm not sure which. But it goes a long way. I do have a crystalline-vivid image of an almost Escher-like descent through a red brick archway up ahead, when the whole shebang becomes a traffic jam with people jammed solidly the width of the escalator, as far as the eye can see. The crowd pattern behaves exactly like creeeeeeeping gridlocked traffic, although the locomotion is still coming from the escalator.

Eventually, just as I throw my hands up and climb over the wide-but-far-from-impassable half-wall separating the escalator from the stairs that have been next to it the entire time, word makes it back that the backup is because some guy set his boss on fire way up ahead. I continue into the building on the stairs, my path unobstructed, only slightly annoyed with myself for waiting so long.

I can't imagine where anything like that might have come from. :-)

Still sick. Blergh. But the cause of much entertainment when I went back to bed for a couple hours after emailing Office of Doom. (Not thinking about what my desk will look like Monday after two days out at end-of-month. Nopenopenopenope.)

It's not every day that I dream a completely illogical disaster movie. ( Cut for long and insane. )

There's some more chaos after that, but I lost the thread. *shakes head*

Sick-day dreams win at weird. O_o

And yet, so very cliché. Which is to say, I occasionally have the archetypal cliché actor's nightmare of finding myself in the middle of a performance with not the first clue what I'm doing. (In a somewhat less cliché twist, I'm generally bluffing my way through it in a sufficiently convincing manner that the audience, and often the rest of the cast, doesn't catch on. Thus proving just how deep-seated is my belief, true or not, that one can pretty much always manage that somehow.)

The variation I woke up from this morning involved me pinch-understudying Gabrielle in Lestat. The fact that the show crashed and burned over six months ago was of course rendered moot by ( the utter bizarritude of the particular incarnation my subconscious decided to mount. )

My brain, as ever, is a mighty weird place.

Busy night, most of it a jumble. However, taraljc? If you ever take it into your head to paint everything in your bedroom white with purple spatters (including some small items like notebooks and pens)? I'll help if you want, but it really won't turn out well. Also, it's probably not necessary to worry that we won't get done before you come home and catch yourself at it.

Although now that I think about it, there may have been time travel involved, which would explain that last bit.

My brain is a weird place.

My alarm went off this morning in the middle of a dream in which I was tattooing the word FLOUT on people's foreheads, so that they could then FLAUNT it.

This is one of my bigger pet English peeves. However, I promise not to get that extreme about it. Even with lawyers and journalists, who really ought to know better.

Do you suppose it's a sign the creative energies need recharging when my dreams are cliché?

Woke up with that feeling that it was a very active dream night, and remembering two of them. Each involved being at some schmoozy entertainment industry party and listening to some chick dishing about how someone not present was a complete prima-donna bitch and not at all the nice person everyone thought.

In the first dream, the party was somehow associated with Sean Combs (possibly hosted by him), and the staff were frantically trying to get some vomit cleaned up on a spiral staircase as I came down it and encountered the little knot of girls dissing Julia Stiles.

The second one was much the same, but without the vomit (or, as far as I know, any P. Diddy association), and with the addition of a newspaper column written by a guy who apparently felt it his duty to catalog the evils of Kristin Chenoweth's high school years for his reading public.

Um, subconscious? If you're trying to tell me (a) the industry encompassing my chosen profession can be catty, treacherous and mean-spirited; (b) there's really no way to tell how much truth is in someone's public image, or to confirm or deny statements contradicting said image made by people claiming inside information, which is why I have zero interest in them; or for that matter (c) gossipy people are incredibly annoying and unpleasant to be around... Well, thanks anyway, but I actually got all those memos years ago.

Come on, brain. You've challenged me to get to my school bus on time after a scheduled (but not mapped) overnight rearrangement of my town that resulted, among other things, in my having to cross an extremely large field of bright fuchsia weeds. I know you can do better than this.

Managed to completely miss the boat on the whole WIP Amnesty Day thing. Not gonna be home with access to my dormant fic until the day is pretty much over (in this time zone, at least). 'Sokay. Dunno that I really have anything I want to put out there, anyway. For the most part, my dead stuff is dead for a reason. *wry g*

Spent all of yesterday, and now all of today, keeping migraine just at bay. :-P One thing I can always count on when I go to bed in the throes of one of these things: ( Really vivid freakin' bizarre dreams. ) and I immediately woke up. At four-freakin'-thirty. Absolutely convinced for several seconds that I had overslept. Which I hadn't, but in checking the clock to see what time it was, I noted that the alarm was off, and I know I turned it on before I went to bed. I've turned it off in my sleep maybe two or three times ever, and luckily every time I have, my subconscious must have noted the anomaly and put a correction in the works, because so far I've always woken up well ahead of time in a panic that I'm late. (Usually when I wake up in the middle of the night or early in the morning, I have a pretty good sense of when it really is.)

I got back to sleep and had another very weird dream, which I still remembered when I got to work this morning but which is now completely *poof*.

Migraine? Still here. Brain can stop trying to leak out ears any time. Nausea is also welcome to take a hike. :-P

Dreamed all last night about trying to build a database of System Lord history for the various writers on the RPG project, using the Access setup at work.

I assigned them all case numbers starting with 0-, so I guess they were all referred to Brennan & Clark for collections in 2000.

Oy.

Okay, not exactly. But the Universe did grant me a vision of the Lemming-Shaped Wienerdog!

Which got to share the spotlight with some bizarre subplot in which I was copy-editing a new advertising spread for Victoria's Secret, and found it really tacky that you could clearly see the outline of pads augmenting Adriana (the sort of exotic-looking, very young -- I think she may actually be 19 now -- girl in all the Very Sexy commercials). Who I know, from having other marketing material in my face all last summer, has no need for such things.

My brain is a weird place.

Woke up this morning from a ( seriously weird dream. )