So, well, uh. Shit. Had a dream the other night. I wasn't aware my subconscious was so fucking creatively bankrupt.
Establishing shot: Wide angle of marsh lands. Tall reeds, heavy fog, some dumb bird all too'weetin' like it means something.
I'm a casual observer, not quite sure if I'm there or not. What is the extent of my agency in this world? Can I walk through walls? Do I get a smarmy ghost guide? On a scale of one to A Christmas Story how weird will this get?
No matter, I hear a cackle. Yeah, that Platonic cackle. Say "cackle" aloud if confusion persists.
Some dude all garbed up medieval-ware (coifs, doublets, other things that remind me of my pelvis) bursts from the reeds with an arrow protruding from his breastplate. Dude is tall, think Yao Ming with less hops, and muscular. The helm comes off and he grins. Personal bias aside, I think he has a great smile, big, wide, confident. I just can't get beyond the whole long and sharp thing. A few whitestrips wouldn't hurt either. That said, the yearbent tartar yellow really goes with his eyes, makes 'em pop.
Dude does some victory cackle and locks eyes with me. Felt like I could piss my pants right there and then and
oh god please don't wet the bed real James oh god not aga-
Dude's skull splits at the top like sharp cheddar and the mother topples over to reveal another knight, much smaller, much shorter, a little "dawww" of a knight, behind his former and heavily implied silhouette. The little guy is assuming what my subconscious immediately determines to be a "Dragonball Z" sword stance. God damnit.
Little time for respite though, several Dudes break on through those reeds. Tall reeds just can't be broken through enough, can they? Barf.
I'm assuming the the little guy is boned. Nice cheese head display and all, but you're fucked, man.
My worries are wasted. Guy is fast. Weaves in and out of the reeds and fog. My eyes barely have time to process his image before he disappears again. Dudes are falling, crawling, missing an arm here, a leg, there. Some heads roll then stop to contemplate the sky. I wait for the Dude ghosts to join me.
Silence in the reeds again. Fog swirling like it has nothing better to do. Dragonball Z stance. A helm lifts, and my father's face is revealed.
I'm not the type to analyze my dreams. I live in a world of incessant cultural cannibalism. The incidental information that makes it into the nethers of my noggin are one-hundred percent unaccounted for. Somewhere, in a decrepit and poorly lit office building, a tired marketing guy does a silent fist pump. We could talk about the sword as a phallus, we could analyze my specific emotional spectrum, we could do any number of pinprick evaluations to figure out "what it all means."
I'd rather not. Dreaming comes infrequently these days. They're missed. At least when they roll around, they're triple-A, big budget epics with, yeah, shallow writing, but absolutely infallible casting. I can think of no one more apt to ascend the throne and assume the duty of Goblin King, ruler of the dream marsh: fog, tall reeds, dream ghost son, yadda, yadda, yadda. It's about time this place changed for the better anyway.