Not wanting to waste those fitful middle-of-the-night moments, I’ll sometimes check my smartphone, looking for west coast baseball scores, or maybe try to find the answer to whatever question occurs to me in the middle of the night.
I’ve also used my phone to jot down dreams I don’t want to forget, like the one I wrote about here. The problems crop up the next morning when I try to make sense of the words I wrote in the hours before dawn. Words like these:
I remembered that I’d written a note last night, but I didn’t write any details. Who’s a stoic dickweed? You, perhaps?
Certainly there’s no one among my current acquaintances who rises to that level of contempt, and curiously enough, “dickweed” isn’t even among my preferred cuss words, so where did it come from?
Delving deeper into my past, in 33 years in the newspaper business I met plenty of stoics, and also more than my fair share of dickweeds, but I’m stumped to recall any former associate who was both stoic and a dickweed.
Oh, who could it be? I give up.
Just a couple things are abundantly clear: My dreams are nothing like your dreams, and I’m a lot farther gone than I thought.