Last night, I dreamt that I was watching Roadhouse. The interesting thing about this is that I spent all of Monday talking about Roadhouse on twitter. So, I guess this dream was my reward.
Last night, I dreamt that I woke up early to watch the Oscar nomination ceremony, just to discover that the power was down and I couldn’t watch anything.
To be honest, I don’t remember much about what I dreamed, other than the fact that I kept waking up in the middle of the night as a result of them. I think, for the most part, they all had to do with me trying to watch a movie. In one dream, I couldn’t remember my passwords. In another dream, the television wouldn’t turn on and I couldn’t figure out who I should call to come fix it. Another one, I’m pretty sure, was just me talking to my sisters about whether or not it was safe to go to a movie theater.
A series of low-key dreams, all rather obviously the product of pandemic anxiety.
In last night’s dream, my father had been excommunicated so my three sisters and I were at the Vatican, seeking an audiences with the Pope and hoping to convince him to rescind the excommunication. We were informed that the Pope was out of the country but that the Bishop of Dallas, Edward Burns, just happened to be in Rome so we were ushered into his office.
He told us he was sympathetic but there wasn’t much he could do. “Also, quite frankly, it would be helpful if your father would make the case for himself.”
As my sisters considered what he said, I announced, “For the record, I’ve seen Song of Bernadette a dozen times and I think that should count for something.”
And that’s when I woke up.
Last night, I dreamed that I was sitting in my bedroom and that I was looking through a thick hard-cover back about the history of online film reviewing. I found my name in the index and and flipped to every mention of me in the text. Once I had read all there was to read about me, I dropped the book on my nightstand, got in bed, and went to sleep.
Finally! I have a new dream to share with everyone!
Last night’s dream started with me and my best friend Evelyn sitting in the back of a taxi that was being driven through downtown Dallas. I complained that I was starting to feel ill and I asked the driver if he could roll down the back window. The driver said nothing and I looked over at Evelyn and shrugged.
(In real life, I do occasionally suffer from car sickness and, unless I’m the one driving, I usually do prefer to have a window rolled down.)
The taxi stopped in front of this huge hotel. It was one of those hotels that has probably been quite impressive back in the day but now, it just looked old. Evelyn and I got out of the taxi. The driver asked for his money. I told him that he wouldn’t get paid because he didn’t roll down the window when I asked. Then Evelyn and I entered the hotel.
Evelyn and I stepped into a large hotel room, one that was considerably nicer than I was expecting. There was a TV sitting in front of the bed. I turned on the TV, sat on the edge of the bed, and watched. Evelyn asked me what was on. I said it was a movie that I was thinking of sharing with the Late Night Movie Gang.
(The Late Night Movie Gang is real. We meet almost every Saturday night and watch an old movie.)
The movie was a low-budget, black-and-white film from the 50s. It was about an old man who lived in a shack. Every night, he would stand in his doorway and he would chant, “To Life Now!” as an army of zombies gathered in front of the shack. Then, the old man would step back into the shack and close the door. The zombies would then wander through the city, attacking anyone who they came acorss. Once the sun rose, the zombies would again gather in front of the shack and dematerialize until the old man called for them again.
The detective in charge of investigating the sudden rash of nighttime murders was baffled by their randomness and the lack of any clues. His girlfriend was a journalist who had been born in Ireland and who swore that they same thing happened in Belfast when she was a child. The detective refused to believe her so she decided to investigate on her own. One night, she spotted a zombie and followed it back to the old man’s shack. This time, the old man stepped outside to tell the zombies that they had done a good job. As soon as the zombies saw him, they descended upon him. “THE END” flashed on the screen while dramatic music swelled.
I turned off the TV. I was now alone in the hotel room. As I stood up, I remembered that I had to get to a meeting and I left the room.
Suddenly, I was in London. I knew I was running late for the meeting so I started to run down the sidewalk, bumping past hundreds of people. I stopped just long enough to take off my heels and then I started running again.
I was in an office. There was a balding man sitting behind a desk. He was wearing a suit and a bowtie. I knew he was an attorney. He motioned for me to sit down in front of the desk. I sat down and asked, “Well?”
The man nervously cleared his throat and then spoke with an English accent. “If you want to sue, you have a case but even if you win, chances are you won’t get the credit.”
“What about her brother?” I asked.
“The British courts are not favorable to hearsay.”
This really upset me. “What about the movie!?” I demanded.
The attorney’s eyes narrowed. “There is no real equivalency.”
And then I woke up.
Last night, I know I had a very long and very complex dream but, unfortunately, I can only remember a fragment of it.
I was sitting in an extremely ornate church, watching a woman and a man getting married. (Because their backs were to me, I can’t tell you who they were.) There was an old woman sitting next to me. She leaned over to me and whispered, “Do you recognize the priest?”
I shook my head.
“That is Francois Truffaut’s son!” she declared.
And that’s all I remember.
(In real life, Truffaut had two daughters but, as far as I know, no sons.)