Reality versus Dream
I am now facing a problem that might be fun in fiction but which is no fun at all in real life: the boundaries between reality and the real world are not always clear.
Routinely, I get up in the night, leave my futon in the family bedroom on the third floor, head downstairs to use the toilet or get a drink of water from the kitchen, and end up getting lost in some huge and incomprehensible architectural space which is masquerading as part of our house.
Some days ago, for example, I found myself in a deserted movie theater. Was I dreaming? I put my hand down and explored, finding a broad wooden board which stretched away to a set of movie seats.
There was thick gritty dust on the board, totally real. This could not be a dream. Yet there was no place in our pristine Japanese house which had accumulations of filth.
In the morning, I compared the real house with my dream, and surmised that perhaps I had sleep-walked into my wife's personal room.
Then, last night, I ended up on the stairs going down. Uncertain of the footing, I shuffled my foot along the stair, questing for a suspected abyss. And felt grit.
Today I checked the stairs and, yes, there was thick gritty dust on a stair which, when I sat on it, was broad, and could have doubled for the broad board in my earlier movie house dream.
I recalled that my wife had optimistically chosen to divide the vacuum cleaning duties between the two of us, but I, sad to say, had taken the cleaner nowhere near the stairs. Today I at least cleaned up that grit, forensic evidence of God knows what kind of diabolical activity on the part of my imagination.
Given that I live in a dislocated reality, the last thing I need is a dislocated a logical fantasy, but that is what I have found online, ELEPHANTS DREAM, in which two weird hominids escape from somewhere and exit sanity into a disconcertingly weird world, the sensibility of which reminds me of ERASERHEAD.
If I can ever figure a way to describe what is going on, then I will write a review of this.