Bambi is Real

It's a good thing that experts in such matters declare dreams are meaningless, because if they meant anything I would check myself into a mental hospital ASAP after the one I had last night.

In it I wandered lost and alone in a foreign land like Syria or Afghanistan or Iran among thousands of refugees in long robes. My accommodations were hostile: A plowed field shared with a group of nomads and some large dogs. When I ventured into the city I was faced with dozens of traffic circles jammed with crumbling jalopies. Nobody spoke English and I could never find my way anywhere and it was all too horrible. (It was almost like my trip to Barcelona last December although nobody got food poisoning so it wasn't quite that bad.)

I was thrilled to awaken and find myself in a real bed in a real house in a town I could name, with things like an alarm clock and a cat and a bathroom within sight. My morning walk was a stark contrast to my chaotic dreamworld, since Freeport in spring is almost identical to a Disney cartoon: Blue skies with fluffy white clouds, birds chirping, yellow, red and pink flowers popping up at every turn, and a family of six or seven deer cavorting on my front lawn when I returned, their white tails waving in the sunlight.

Thank God for real life.