Dr. Metablog

Cliche of the Decade

There's this woman of a certain age, good looking, usually blonde. Generally, she's a detective but she could be reporter or a spy -- some sort of investigator. She has an instinct for her work, an unusual insight or gift. There's a murderer or villain out there and she's determined to get him; it's personal with her and often she has to violate procedures in order to bring this character to justice. She regularly confronts her superior, an older man who is a stickler for the rules and wants to shut down the investigation. As a last resort, she'll ask for 24 hours, or more rarely 48 hours, to bring the villain in. And guess what -- it turns out that her instinct was right all along and after a brief struggle, in which her life is in danger (often there's an attempted assassination, usually by speeding vehicle), the criminal/mastermind/murderer is handcuffed (British version) or shot (American version).

A Most Peculiar Dream

The ol' dreamatorium was working overtime last night. The protagonist, who was and who was not me was a mature, bearded gentleman, a prosperous landowner in what seemed like the antebellum South. He, or he/I, was the target of a plot by a younger cousin in league with a scuzzy lawyer to have him/me declared insane -- and therefore his/my property to be confiscated and transferred to the control of the villainous cousin. The heart of the dream was a hearing or trial in which he/I was cross examined and every of his emotions mischaracterized by the lawyer and the panel of mental health experts. For example, if he/I expressed indignation and anger, it was interpreted as paranoia; if he/I remained impassive it was understood as catatonia. Every emotion became its parodic extreme. As a result, he/I was placed in an institution; a rather bucolic one, but still a place of incarceration. However, after some while, another hearing was held, and he/I was able to convince a judge that there had been a miscarriage of justice. So he/I was set free to reclaim his property. But, he/I said to the judge, I have no money, no clothes, no means of transportation, so no one will believe me. The judge then offered to loan me/him some money, but was clear that it was a loan, not a gift. In the last scene of the dream, he/I is mounted on a horse (black and white one, like a Holstein), wearing a Confederate uniform, and carrying, believe it or not, a shiny sword. Then I woke up.

I cannot interpret this beaut, this honey of a dream.  It was very cinematic, very vivid, and very long. But it doesn't apply to my life in any obvious way. I've never been accused of insanity, never lost any property, don't know any corrupt lawyers, never been institutionalized, never even been on a horse, and certainly don't carry a sword.  Moreover, it was an undreamlike dream: no fantastic elements or objects morphing into other objects. It seemed less like a dream than like a lost chapter or sub-pot to Gone with the Wind. Mighty puzzling.