Last night's synapse-fest really went kooky. I watched some lesbian subplot on West Wing with a bunch of dream-acquaintances who had convinced Leonard to try pot. I was unnerved. Then I saw an alternate-universe Russia with a slightly different alphabet, where I tried to tell a woman that I'd never poured milk into circular grooves cut into the ground, as she was doing. I did well enough and passed her surreptitious test, so I got to be in the Apollo Amateur Night, and I met various other up-and-coming performers who expressed their pleasure at meeting me and desire to hang out with me.

Oh, and somewhere in there my family had Hamid Karzai as a boarder, and he helped keep peace between my mom and me (I was throwing away some photos and she loathed that) with a metaphor of a coconut tree that an anti-Muhammad mob burned down just because it suspected he was hiding there (he wasn't). We all knew he was fated to die soon, and we helped him write his book and burned long, thin candles. In the dream I discovered that my family and most other religions used them as Hindus use incense, and that the candles I held contained elaborate decorative carvings on the inside, carvings that would melt away unseen if you never truncated the candle to see it. How wonderful!

Also, Cody's was part of Disneyland.

I notice now that I use the verb "to be" and the imperfective a lot when I relate my dreams. I do this because I remember fewer incidents and actions, focusing instead on the strange persons, places and things that populate the dream world. Only really vivid, disturbing, emotionally evocative acts from my dreams really stick around for my conscious.