Snapshot: Dream Journal
This dream is actually in two parts. The first part I dreamt a couple of months ago. Last night, apparently, I dreamt a sequel.
I find myself at a family party, but there are a bunch of new faces there on this particular evening; these faces look surprisingly like the faces on stereotypical mafia types one might see on television or on film. Puzzled at the presence of these 'goombas', I go and ask my father what they are doing here at a private family function. My father tells me, though not in so many words, that our family does indeed have mafia links, and has for some time. (How a family that is ENTIRELY German in its heritage, and lives in backwoods Wisconsin, gets to be part of La Cosa Nostra, is never explained, of course.)
Thoroughly flummoxed, I walk into the basement of the dinner lounge the family function is being held at, to give the bartender a hand in bringing something up. While downstairs, I spot another pair of very obviously mafia-looking men. Thinking uncharacteristically quickly for me, I duck into the shadows, and listen to them converse. After a brief moment, it becomes apparent that the two are planning to murder my father as he leaves the establishment. I decide that I can't allow this to pass, so I cast about for something I might use as a weapon, and quite conveniently, find a gun on the table next to me. I heft the pistol, and without a word, I gun down the two basement-dwelling mafiosos, and walk back up to the party.
That was the first dream. Now comes the part I dreamt last night.
My father and I are on vacation together, along with several of the hitmen from the previous dream. It's someplace sunny and warm, and a bit touristy, but that is all I remember. We are accosted by an FBI detective, who begins questioning everyone about the murder of the two thugs in the basement of the dinner lounge, whom I'd murdered in the first dream. He is very polite, though very cold, in his mannerism, and he looks quite a bit like the actor Ed Harris. Finally, he calls me into the room set aside at the nearby police headquarters, and begins questioning me. His line of questioning suggests that he does not suspect me as the murderer, but thinks rather that it is one of the men outside. I offer only curt, though polite, answers, and I am soon released. The FBI agent has little choice but to let us leave after the questioning is done, during which time there is little conversation on our part, though a few off-color jokes are traded by the mafiosos. All the while, I've felt only a detached sort of nervousness; there is no greater sense of fear present.
Then I wake up.
I find myself at a family party, but there are a bunch of new faces there on this particular evening; these faces look surprisingly like the faces on stereotypical mafia types one might see on television or on film. Puzzled at the presence of these 'goombas', I go and ask my father what they are doing here at a private family function. My father tells me, though not in so many words, that our family does indeed have mafia links, and has for some time. (How a family that is ENTIRELY German in its heritage, and lives in backwoods Wisconsin, gets to be part of La Cosa Nostra, is never explained, of course.)
Thoroughly flummoxed, I walk into the basement of the dinner lounge the family function is being held at, to give the bartender a hand in bringing something up. While downstairs, I spot another pair of very obviously mafia-looking men. Thinking uncharacteristically quickly for me, I duck into the shadows, and listen to them converse. After a brief moment, it becomes apparent that the two are planning to murder my father as he leaves the establishment. I decide that I can't allow this to pass, so I cast about for something I might use as a weapon, and quite conveniently, find a gun on the table next to me. I heft the pistol, and without a word, I gun down the two basement-dwelling mafiosos, and walk back up to the party.
That was the first dream. Now comes the part I dreamt last night.
My father and I are on vacation together, along with several of the hitmen from the previous dream. It's someplace sunny and warm, and a bit touristy, but that is all I remember. We are accosted by an FBI detective, who begins questioning everyone about the murder of the two thugs in the basement of the dinner lounge, whom I'd murdered in the first dream. He is very polite, though very cold, in his mannerism, and he looks quite a bit like the actor Ed Harris. Finally, he calls me into the room set aside at the nearby police headquarters, and begins questioning me. His line of questioning suggests that he does not suspect me as the murderer, but thinks rather that it is one of the men outside. I offer only curt, though polite, answers, and I am soon released. The FBI agent has little choice but to let us leave after the questioning is done, during which time there is little conversation on our part, though a few off-color jokes are traded by the mafiosos. All the while, I've felt only a detached sort of nervousness; there is no greater sense of fear present.
Then I wake up.