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Talking about my dreams isn’t a normal occurrence. Probably a good thing as so many would no doubt raise a few eyebrows. Last night was a marathon in stark and vivid weirdness that I just can’t get out of my head though. Spill it dude…

The dream came into focus on the following scene: South Park was airing its final show and I was invited to the wrap party. A small group of us watched the show wind down as all the characters grouped for a final musical number. The ending cresecendo was all voices raised in unison to sing “Uncle Fuka”. We clapped and laughed and rode a wave of hooting and hollering until a very Hippied out Matt Stone grabbed me by the arm to sit and have a convo. Besides his tie dyed garb and Rastafarian headware, what surprised me was his mouth full of piercings – carved tusks and bone covered the inside of his mouth. Whoa. We talked like old friends for quite some time, he seeming relaxed and relieved that it was all over, when he suddenly paused, looked up and said “it’s happening”. The scene morphed. I was now standing outside on a long beach, a vast city behind me. The sky was an odd blue and gray color, smoky. And planes were falling from the sky. Around me were a couple of flaming husks, parts and pieces and wreckage strewn everywhere. But more were falling. I looked up and judged my position relative to a rapidly approaching 747, breaking up as it bore down on me. Up and down the beach and up in the sky was evidence of a massive wave of planes crashing and burning. Out in the ocean the waves carried more wreckage to shore. And finally in a single, sweeping wave a huge group of people – survivors – were washed to shore.

I’m not interested in dream interpretation – I don’t think there is any rhyme or reason for what the brain does in it’s own playground when it doesn’t have to worry about your boring life. Sometimes it’s simply an occasion to linger a bit and observe, in a voyeuristic way, the strange and colorful world of your own head.