I'll see you in my dreams, baby

Last weekend Alan talked about his dreams.  I have dreams too.  I don’t mean like Martin Luther King Jr. - though I do also have those dreams - but rather the freewheeling REM insanity of logic-less sleep flight.  The times when your brain, through the narcotic of sleep, invents bizarro world lunatic adventures for you to enjoy while resting.  It’s paradoxical, don’t you think, that during the deepest of our sleep cycles we experience the most intensely active of dreams?  

Anyway.  I have dreams too.  And today I’m going to tell you about them.  No, not the one where I’m a Gorgon on the Enterprise holodeck who escapes and rides the Pegasus to the Bridge and turns Starfleet Command to stone via the viewscreen.  Not the one where I discover the Labyrinth beneath my old elementary school and run away with Jareth the Goblin King as played by Tom Hardy, either.  Though that one was, admittedly, awesome.

(I should mention if you’ve already tuned out due to insanity that this entire post is the fault of my roommate who specifically requested that I write about this particular dream.)

No, this is about the Bog-cor.

It’s actually a series of interconnected dreams spaced nights apart.  One of the things my subconscious does during REM sleep is cliffhangers and two-parters.  We are very fond of continuing adventures, my brain and I.  This is one of those.

The first dream involved the cat.  Our cat, Bogart.  In real life Bogart is a huge black long-hair male cat with gigantic yellow demon eyes and a penchant for aggressive snuggling.  He’s large and weird but he’s just a cat.  In the dream he was Falcor.  Tell me you remember who Falcor is.  Oh my god, people, where have you been?  What did you do with your childhoods?  Falcor was the giant flying bubble-dog thing from The NeverEnding Story.  Falcor was amazing.  The dream involved a Bogart-Falcor hybrid which I am creatively calling Bog-cor.  He was enormous, like Falcor, and long and dragon-like, like Falcor, and flying, like Falcor, but was covered in long black fur and had a cat face complete with giant yellow demon eyes.  And he howled like a banshee or like a cat who hasn’t had tuna in an hour and is going to die an unholy death unless a can is opened immediately.  The Bog-cor flew past my window while I was sleeping and woke me up (in the dream).  When I went to the window I was greeted by the enormous cat face.  Which was notable because we live on the fourth floor.  Nothing else happened in that dream.  It was like an introductory sequence.

The second dream, a few nights later, involved George Clooney.  (My brain has a fantastic casting department.  Just absolutely top notch.)  No, it wasn’t one of those dreams.  I don’t write those dreams.  (For you guys, anyway.)  Moving on, in this dream George was giving a lecture in a vast and echoing brick lecture hall.  The room was full of agents who all resembled either Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, or Agent Smith from The Matrix.  It was like a doppelganger convention.  They were all dressed in identical black suits and the male agents all wore yellow ties while the Scully agents all had yellow blouses.  George Clooney was wearing a sort of mocha colored suit (which sounds awful but looked incredibly suave) with a shirt open at the neck.  He was lecturing the assembled agents on the nature of the Bog-cor.  A holographic image of the Bog-cor floated mid-air off to his right and spun slowly so all sides of the creature could clearly be seen.  And George would gesture to it as he spoke.  I can’t remember a single thing he said about the Bog-cor but I remember that the sound of his voice was thrilling.  The assembled agents all took copious notes on pink iPads.  Nobody asked why George Clooney was the foremost expert on the Bog-cor.  It simply was.

The third, and at present final, installment involved both George Clooney and the Bog-cor.  It took place in Lake Como in Italy which is where real-life George Clooney has a villa.  I’ve never been to Lake Como or to George’s estate (I presume my invitation will arrive any day) but here’s a fun maybe-true factoid: the Lake Como villa used as the set of the Night Fox’s home in Ocean’s Twelve is rumored to be George Clooney’s.  Which makes sense.  At any rate, my brain used all those things to create a villa that very closely resembled the one seen in Ocean’s Twelve.  On the spacious patio where in the movie Julia Roberts and George Clooney sat awaiting the Night Fox’s arrival, a string of patio lanterns swayed overhead.  Distant jazzy music poured from somewhere deep within the house to spill dimly over the patio.  It was nighttime but it wasn’t dark because of the gigantic yellow moon, the patio lanterns, and all the stars crowding the sky.  Actually the stars were warping the sky.  You know when the Enterprise goes to warp speed (or your computer goes to screensaver) how all the stars blur into sudden streaking lines?  That’s what the sky over the villa was doing.  George Clooney himself was there.  He was wearing black dress pants and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves haphazardly rolled up.  He had a SCUBA tank at his feet but was otherwise not wearing any SCUBA gear.  To the stone rail of the patio was wound a fine-link golden chain.  It stretched not down over the ground but up, straight up into the air, and would move about in dips and jolts.  As omniscient-me (I wasn’t in this dream properly but there as more of an unseen overseer) watched, George whistled and the golden chain pooled on the ground as the Bog-cor came into view.  The opposite end of the chain linked to a golden collar around its neck and it perched on the rail and fixed George with its unblinking demon eyes.  A large machinery-like sound erupted from it which became clear was a purr.  George told the Bog-cor a story then and I don’t remember any of the story except that it was extremely funny and rather dirty and at the end of it the Bog-cor launched itself straight up into the air, pulling the chain taut, while a crowd of people suddenly stepped from the shadows of the patio applauding.  The applause was riotous, deafening, and shook the stars from the sky so instead of warping across the sky they were now warping straight down into the ground and tearing up the gardens all around the villa.  Overhead the Bog-cor howled.  And George sang an acapella version of Frank Sinatra’s ‘This Town’.  

I don’t even think that needs a concluding sentence, you know?  

I haven’t analyzed it, no.  Isn’t it kind of obvious, anyway?  And anyway, perfection doesn’t require analysis.

 

- Corinne Simpson