I dreamed a dream in time gone by
Aug. 5th, 2010 09:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
r_scribblesLast night the part of my dream that I can remember consisted of this: I was in a bar with some friends & we were persuaded to go to a vegetarian restaurant because they had this one dish which was amazing & one of my friends wanted to try it. We ended up right upstairs in the attic of this restaurant after having to pull ourselves up ladders & wooden staircases with huge bits missing out of them. From our lofty perch we could see lots of other people getting served but all the waiters seemed to have forgotten we were there. Occasionally a waitress would bring a random dish to someone else at our table, but never me. I hadn't even got a menu. Hours passed and still I had nothing to eat. One of my friends offered me a microwave ready meal lasagne that they'd bought from the shops earlier, which I grudgingly ate because I was hungry. Eventually I managed to attract the attention of a waitress and complained that I hadn't been serves. They apologised that they'd now stopped cooking but gave me a box of chocolates as recompense. Still complaining that I wanted my dinner, I ate the chocolates, bitterly.
And this is why I'd be a rubbish character in Inception. Never mind the carpet not feeling quite real enough; any of my marks would suddenly find themselves in a dreamscape full of mundane, middle class anxieties, petty irritations and, occasionally, inexplicably trying to find a nice, comfortable, clean pair of knickers as hoardes of Zombies swept through ruined cities (this is an oddly regular recurring theme to my many Apocolypse Dreams. It's not even that the Zombocaypse has caused me to soil the underpants that I was initially wearing - I'm always just aware that, in the face of the collapse of civilisation, a girl really should own a change of pants). Never mind the fact that when Ellen Page's Rookie 'Architect' is introduced to the ultimate in Lucid Dreaming, she gets a bit cocky about it, folding Paris in on itself, pulling bridges out of nowhere until she gets caught out. I've had lucid dreams, and the realisation that I'm dreaming has made me very cocky about it too, although my reaction has usually been to flap my arms until I soar up into the air like a demented, giggling Golden Eagle, then land in a sundrenched, public spot and proceed to have it away with whatever Fictitious/Famous Honeys have caught my attention lately, all the time jeering onlookers that there's fuck all they can do about my al-fresco fantasy fulfillment orgy, since they're all just figments of my imagination so THERE. I would just make the worst Dream Thief ever.
I'm not going to write a proper review of Inception here - as a well written, gorgeous thriller with a subject matter that's right up my street, I was bound to love it. I don't think it's giving too much away to say that there are questions throughout the film over what is and isn't a waking reality, and the final scene's had me pondering all day. And, seemingly because the concept of a dream within a dream within a dream (within, possibly, AT LEAST two more dream layers) just wasn't enough of a headfuck for the audience, the film's makers decided to add one more major detail to make sure that our minds were well and truly messed with.
They cast Little Tommy Solomon off Third Rock From The Sun.
And they made him one. Hot. Patootie.
THIS IS NOT RIGHT. I mean, I know the 90s were a long time ago, and the guy must be my age if not older by now, but I should not fancy the arse of Little Tommy Solomon with his horrid hair. Damn you, Time! You make hot people old/dead and weird looking kids hot. WHY DO YOU TOY WITH ME SO, WHY?
If I were Ellen Page in that film, they could have saved so much money on special effects. The dream I created would be me forgetting the entirety of a standup routine I was supposed to do, running away, finding a pair of pants, running into Arthur, 'accidentally' kissing him, then I'd open my eyes and he'd be Little Tommy Solomon again. A crowd of Zombies would shuffle up behind me chanting 'Peado, Peado', I'd run off and complain to the Maitre D. Cut to black, credits.
And this is why I'd be a rubbish character in Inception. Never mind the carpet not feeling quite real enough; any of my marks would suddenly find themselves in a dreamscape full of mundane, middle class anxieties, petty irritations and, occasionally, inexplicably trying to find a nice, comfortable, clean pair of knickers as hoardes of Zombies swept through ruined cities (this is an oddly regular recurring theme to my many Apocolypse Dreams. It's not even that the Zombocaypse has caused me to soil the underpants that I was initially wearing - I'm always just aware that, in the face of the collapse of civilisation, a girl really should own a change of pants). Never mind the fact that when Ellen Page's Rookie 'Architect' is introduced to the ultimate in Lucid Dreaming, she gets a bit cocky about it, folding Paris in on itself, pulling bridges out of nowhere until she gets caught out. I've had lucid dreams, and the realisation that I'm dreaming has made me very cocky about it too, although my reaction has usually been to flap my arms until I soar up into the air like a demented, giggling Golden Eagle, then land in a sundrenched, public spot and proceed to have it away with whatever Fictitious/Famous Honeys have caught my attention lately, all the time jeering onlookers that there's fuck all they can do about my al-fresco fantasy fulfillment orgy, since they're all just figments of my imagination so THERE. I would just make the worst Dream Thief ever.
I'm not going to write a proper review of Inception here - as a well written, gorgeous thriller with a subject matter that's right up my street, I was bound to love it. I don't think it's giving too much away to say that there are questions throughout the film over what is and isn't a waking reality, and the final scene's had me pondering all day. And, seemingly because the concept of a dream within a dream within a dream (within, possibly, AT LEAST two more dream layers) just wasn't enough of a headfuck for the audience, the film's makers decided to add one more major detail to make sure that our minds were well and truly messed with.
They cast Little Tommy Solomon off Third Rock From The Sun.
And they made him one. Hot. Patootie.
THIS IS NOT RIGHT. I mean, I know the 90s were a long time ago, and the guy must be my age if not older by now, but I should not fancy the arse of Little Tommy Solomon with his horrid hair. Damn you, Time! You make hot people old/dead and weird looking kids hot. WHY DO YOU TOY WITH ME SO, WHY?
If I were Ellen Page in that film, they could have saved so much money on special effects. The dream I created would be me forgetting the entirety of a standup routine I was supposed to do, running away, finding a pair of pants, running into Arthur, 'accidentally' kissing him, then I'd open my eyes and he'd be Little Tommy Solomon again. A crowd of Zombies would shuffle up behind me chanting 'Peado, Peado', I'd run off and complain to the Maitre D. Cut to black, credits.
