Had an odd series of dreams about being Sir Sven, a nordic Knight in Shining Armor. It was all about people asking me to defend the wierdest things, culminating with "memory bugs," a sort of inscect that held a tribe's memories, but also devoured human flesh.

When I'd woken up, sythyry forced me to reveal that I am in fact a pervert, degenerate, libertine, actor, adventuerer, rake and na'er-do-well.

I am not, however a fop. Mostly, the attention I pay to clothes is limited to "does it fit? Is it warm? Is it (reasonably) modest? Cool."

Not that there's anything wrong with being a fop, you understand... some of my best friends exhibit foppish tendancies.

Now, if you'll excuse me... Sir Sven needs a shower, after those bugs.

Bizare dream in which Tiffany Taylor (Playboy's Miss November, 1998, Modern Ferret's cover model for issue #22) brought her ferrets over to have tea with mine.

Saddly, no nudity on the part of Ms. Taylor.

Plenty of naked ferrets.

No, it wasn't that kind of dream... just ferrets sitting down to high tea.

I ended up driving matterntm and great_cthulhu home last night from the game, which was fine... I'd volunteered, after all, and didn't mind. It was kind of an interesting lesson in how big Tucson's gotten, though, 'cause great_cthulhu lives down on the far south side, and matterntm on the east side. I of course, live north-central-ish... in fact, if I were feeling ambitious, I'd say I live within walking distance of hamner, who was hosting the game last night.

Anyway, poor matterntm got "treated" to me singing along with the radio for about half an hour. Sorry... it was helping me stay awake. I really do turn into a pumpkin at about ten, ten-thirty.

Anyway... I had an odd dream when I finally got home. I was in math class, only instead of my math teacher, my old friend Julie (who I hadn't thought of in years, before the other night) was teaching. And it was mardi gras, and all through class, we kept promising Julie beads, if she'd just show us her boobs.

Hey, I said it was a wierd dream, okay?

(As an amusing side note, I never went to bed with Julie, but she did actually show me her boobs at one point).

Julie was one of the gang at Bad Software, Inc, where I did too much time as a telephone support tech. She was, in fact, the person who introduced me to Trish.

She was tall, and slender, and had long, blonde hair. Sound like anyone you've met recently, brennabe? Probably why I was thinking about her....

Anyway....

Scattered thoughts this morning. I'm at work, but I don't really want to be. The sky is blue, there's a nice breeze, and it's not yet topped 90F. I want to take my Mighty Destrier out on the highway, and burn some gas.

I can't afford the time off... or the gas.

So I guess I'm just stuck here, dreaming of escape and Sheryl Crow songs.

I don't often remember my dreams, and even when I do, they're rarely of any interest. I've said before that it's my belief that dreams are simply the brain doing file maintenance during downtime.

Last night, though, I had a dream that has made me think about identity, and how we percieve identity.

I dreamt that I was picked up by nameless, faceless men in the uniform of nameless security services... non-descript suits, white shirts, ties.

They kept calling me "Mr. Simpson," and I kept trying to protest that I wasn't Mr. Simpson, I was Cowboy R. They took me to a building, put me in a room. I was interrogated, by several different people. They wanted me to admit to being Mr. Simpson, and to having done something dastardly with the real Cowboy R.

The dream wasn't exactly a nightmare, but it wasn't particular comfortable, either. After I woke up, I started thinking about it.

What would it take to get me to admit that I wasn't who I thought I was? How would someone prove to me... could anyone prove to me... that I was Mr. Simpson?

Or would my sense of my own identity be immune to all such appeals?

Could anyone convince you you weren't who you thought you were?

I have just awakened, and dreams still cling to my hair. I do not often write about dreams, for I feel that they are sort of a mental cesspool, your brain doing filemaintenance, and getting rid of garbage.

But...

I dreamed I had travelled back to Göttingen, Germany. I got off the train, and paused for a moment in the downtown bus stop where we used to wait together after our D&D games.

I had awkward things in my hands which I needed to redistribute into my bags, into my pockets. As I did, I kept looking around for familiar faces, telling myself how silly I was being.

It's been sixteen years. Where'd they go?

I had friends in those days. Thomas, Dietmar, Uwe... good friends. I miss them.