Thursday, October 9, 2003

So, the dream:

I'm driving across the flatlands of southern Alberta in a big gold convertible beneath the blazing sun. It's over ninety degrees, and dusty as hell. I'm dreaming, I think. In the back seat reclines a kooky girl in a brightly printed sundress; her slender legs - dancer's legs - are kicked up over the headrest of the passenger seat, distracting me. Glancing at her feet, I realize I'm driving with only one shoe on and I turn to the girl saying, "We'll talk about this in the next town." She just throws her head back and laughs maniacally, tossing her tousled hair in the wind. It's true; I know that we might never get there. Instead we'll drive, endlessly, across this wasteland of the mind.

Like all dreams, I have no idea what this means.

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