Before I get to it, I just want to say that I’m well accustomed to my dreams not making sense. They are typically a through-the-looking-glass regurgitation of whatever was on my mind that day. Well – there is one other type of dream I’ll occasionally have. When I’m either A) sleeping in a bad position, or B) really needing to urinate, my brain will often awaken me by giving me a REALLY icky dream.
So here was my dream: I pick up the newspaper to read the comics. My eyes settle on a single-panel strip. It is drawn in a detailed, Victorian engraving style. A squirrel is depicted, sitting at a table in his living room and smiling at us. The room is filled with fireflies, perhaps twenty or so, all lit up. The caption is this: “Martin thus came to understand why he liked Christopher Woolf.” End of dream.
That’s quite unlike my usual dreams. Christopher Woolf? Martin? Fireflies? A Google search tells me that there is some minor author who bears the name Christopher Woolf, but I’m pretty darn certain that I’ve never known such a person. Then there are those fireflies. Heck, I’ve never even seen a complete episode of the late lamented series Firefly. So there it is. Make of it what you will.