perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub.
Dream diaries. More than anything, when you say "blog" people think of sloe-eyed Goths sitting in their black bedrooms, typing away at their black keyboard about their dreams.
Well, it ain't gonna happen here.
Dreams are an intensely personal thing. Sharing your dreams is rather like selling used panties on the internet, tho I hear this is a pretty commercial thing these days. Ew. But I digress. Not only are dreams personal but they're SO personal that most times people won't understand a blinking thing you're on about. Dreams come directly from our own experiences and thought processes, so how is some complete stranger from Duluth going to read your mental dealings with death and trains and feral carrots and go "Aaaah yes, I understand exactly!" Not gonna happen, Count.
Mrs. Irrelephant and I share our dreams more often than not, but that's because we've been living together for so long that we are completely familiar with each other's dream vocabularies, not to mention each other's fears, wants, hopes and all that. It goes without saying that these same driving forces appear in our dreams, so it's at least a foot in the door to be able to relate to each other's dream sequences. Not to mention the fact that we have to deal with each other WHEN we're dreaming. All of that (except for the "during" part) also applies to my syster, for the same reasons. Time spent together draws people together, so that the mental processes gain a certain familiarity. I wouldn't push it much past a VERY few close friends, you know who you are, and that's about it. Nobody else is close enough to me to be able to even get the tip-end of what I'm on about when I dream about being in a television show or devoured whole by a Greater Three-Toed Pusillinamous.
I recall reading somewhere that Salvador Dali, the leading man of the Surrealists knew of a certain Spanish cheese that would give him intense indigestion, and if eaten at night this indigestion would give him fierce nightmares. So of course, being Dali, he ate it every night, to induce himself to these vivid fever-dreams which he would then translate into pigment on canvas.
No sir, none for me thanks, I've got to drive home.
My wife makes a mean chicken enchillada, which seems to have the same effect on me as the Daliesque cheese. An utterly delicious supper, and she cooks for the three of us like she's feeding a Basque Separatist Movement meeting, but they're soo good it's not even funny. And naturally last night I had one of these monstrously large, incredibly good wraps. What got me was that I knew full well the consequences, but thought that I was eating early enough in the afternoon that I'd have no problems by nightfall.
Fool that I am, my body decided to shut down all digestive processes until I fell asleep, at which time it went into production like the return to work after a strike at a coal-mine and being paid double-overtime. So of course I got to harvest a full crop of nightmares, as well as getting hit in the face with a pillow at one point, apparently in response to some nocturnal mumbling of mine.
Let's not even get into the response I'm going to have at the other end of the biological system.