Regret to inform you that I am very sleepy now, as the hypnotist would say. Ergo, my blogging capabilities are limited right now.
But thinking about sleep leads to thinking about dreams. Literal dreams. But a lot of the time they seem to be assembled by the waking mind, which is more comfortable with narrative. A few disconnected images come, maybe accompanied by a feeling. Then we interpret, either to diminish its effect or to enhance it.
But thinking about sleep leads to thinking about dreams. Literal dreams. But a lot of the time they seem to be assembled by the waking mind, which is more comfortable with narrative. A few disconnected images come, maybe accompanied by a feeling. Then we interpret, either to diminish its effect or to enhance it.
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I understand how weariness can interfere with best laid plans. Since you're sleeping now I will leave you a favourite story of mine about dreams.
It seems that in 1891 a certain Mrs. Butler, who lived in Ireland with her husband, dreamed of finding herself in a very beautiful house, furnished with all imaginable comforts. The dream made a deep impression on her mind, and the following night she again dreamed of the same house and of going over it. And so for many nights in succession, until in the family circle she and her house of dreams became the subject of gentle raillery. In 1892 the Butlers decided to leave Ireland and take up their residence in England. They went to London and procured from various agencies lists of country houses. Having heard of a house in Hampshire, they went out to see it. At the gate-keeper’s lodge Mrs. Butler exclaimed, “This is the gate-house of my dream!” And when they reached the house she affirmed the house to be that of her dreams. The woman in charge proceeded to show the premises, and Mrs. Butler said she recognized all the details, except a certain door, which it turned out had been added to the place within six months. The estate being for sale at a very low price, the Butlers suddenly decided to buy it.
When it was bought and paid for, the price had been so extraordinarily small, that they could not help a misgiving that there must be something wrong with the place. So they went to the agent of the people who had sold it and said, ‘Well, now the purchase is made and the deeds are signed, will you mind telling us why the price asked was so small?’ The agent had started violently when they came in, but recovered himself. Then he said to Mrs. Butler, ‘Yes, it is quite true the matter is quite settled, so there can be no harm in telling now. The fact is that the house has had a great reputation for being haunted; but you, madam, need be under no apprehensions, for you are yourself the ghost!’ On the nights when Mrs. Butler had dreamt she was at her house, she—her ‘astral body’—had been seen there.
I'm not sure whether I've told you about a website I took a fancy to a few years ago. The writer is an anthropologist and the site is called 'EsoterX'. You might enjoy his stories when you awake.
Sweet dreams.
Ooh wow, that EsoterX site. The stories look to be right up my alley. It looks like it could be downright addictive, so maybe it's good he seems to update only erratically.
Anyway, that was a neat little story, and I thank you for sending it to me.
BTW, it's weird that Hampshire is at the southern tip of England. It has seasons, certainly, but it's at least at the Mid-Atlantic summer paradise clime. And yet the US state named after it is quite chilly in the Northeastern corner.
Happy Birthday, yea.
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