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Jul. 5th, 2012 09:11 amI'm determined to write interesting things today and only interesting things. Like my dreams last night.
Or possibly not like my dreams last night. For my dreams last night were about a royal christening. It was bigger and more sumptuous than any royal christening in the history of royal christenings: it lasted for many hours and had so much panoply and pageant that only segments could be aired on TV. There were, of course, amazing costumes and various folk dancers and other groups who were performing for the Christening Spectacular. I got to the see the baby just once once in the dream. All the rest was about meeting friends and navigating crowds and negotiating drinks.
I had a special ticket, as a writer and Australian and secret Person of Note. How one can be both secret and a Person of Note is something I forgot to ask my dream world. I suspect it was related to the fact that I am a lucid dreamer and was bored by the crowds and so teleported myself and an English country dancer friend in a rather Elizabethan costume to where all the best views were.
"Don't tell anyone I can do this," I informed her, in a tone of high seriousness. One speaks in tones of High Seriousness at Events of such Grandeur, it appears.
"Can you teleport all my rubbish home, so that I don't litter?" was her answer.
"Of course," and I did that and her costume was no longer encumbered by a large clear plastic bag sagging with the seasoning from chips. It had clashed with her silver and white colours, and now she had her hands free to shove through crowds: all was good.
The baby at the centre of all this was a parsnip, dressed in cloth of gold and white silk. Its proud parent (I'm not sure about sexing parsnips, so I don't know if it was the mother or father) was there beside it, also wrapped resplendently.
I shall give up on my earnest endeavour to be worth reading and go make a big pot of coffee. The Memory of the Parsnip demands this action. Actually the Memory of the Parsnip demanded that we all adjourn at a pub afterwards, to marvel over the event, but the nearest pub won't be open for hours and the coffee pot is on the stove.
Or possibly not like my dreams last night. For my dreams last night were about a royal christening. It was bigger and more sumptuous than any royal christening in the history of royal christenings: it lasted for many hours and had so much panoply and pageant that only segments could be aired on TV. There were, of course, amazing costumes and various folk dancers and other groups who were performing for the Christening Spectacular. I got to the see the baby just once once in the dream. All the rest was about meeting friends and navigating crowds and negotiating drinks.
I had a special ticket, as a writer and Australian and secret Person of Note. How one can be both secret and a Person of Note is something I forgot to ask my dream world. I suspect it was related to the fact that I am a lucid dreamer and was bored by the crowds and so teleported myself and an English country dancer friend in a rather Elizabethan costume to where all the best views were.
"Don't tell anyone I can do this," I informed her, in a tone of high seriousness. One speaks in tones of High Seriousness at Events of such Grandeur, it appears.
"Can you teleport all my rubbish home, so that I don't litter?" was her answer.
"Of course," and I did that and her costume was no longer encumbered by a large clear plastic bag sagging with the seasoning from chips. It had clashed with her silver and white colours, and now she had her hands free to shove through crowds: all was good.
The baby at the centre of all this was a parsnip, dressed in cloth of gold and white silk. Its proud parent (I'm not sure about sexing parsnips, so I don't know if it was the mother or father) was there beside it, also wrapped resplendently.
I shall give up on my earnest endeavour to be worth reading and go make a big pot of coffee. The Memory of the Parsnip demands this action. Actually the Memory of the Parsnip demanded that we all adjourn at a pub afterwards, to marvel over the event, but the nearest pub won't be open for hours and the coffee pot is on the stove.