Ever since my last post about dreams, that subject seems to have come up a lot more than usual. Probably part of the reason is because I did write about dreams, which means Mom and Dad got the e-mails of my blog and read the post like the loving, caring parents they are. (Oh, and I had yet another wedding dream. I'm starting to think talking about them makes them occur.) Somehow, on the way home from church on Wednesday, we were talking about dreams. In particular, flying.
I don't remember ever having a dream about flying. The closest I've ever come is falling, and that happens a lot. Usually from a treehouse, though sometimes I'll be stumbling downstairs (I've lost my breath twice doing that in real life, and it was one of the scariest experiences to me) or be leaning too far over something and tumble off. Dad and Heather said they both have had flying dreams, and went on to describe them.
Heather said it was the coolest thing, because it literally felt like flying. From the way she described it, I was jealous. Why don't I ever get those sort of dreams?
Dad said flying always took a lot of mental effort, and on occasion a cardboard box. When I asked him to elaborate, he explained that it was less like soaring and more like floating, and he really had to concentrate on it, with varying results.
I think I read somewhere that flying dreams are some of the most common. Don't quote me, though. We know how great my memory is. That notion seemed a little odd to me because, like I said, I've never had any such dreams that I can recall, and I haven't heard many other people say that they have (and there are days when the whole family has spent the previous night experiencing strange dreams, and we discuss them [except Wes who, apparently, doesn't dream]). But maybe it's just me. Actually, it probably is just me. I wonder what that says about my subconscious compared to my dad's and sister's?
I suppose the topic of flying was more fascinating to me because I have a character in a little short story I'm working on ("short" being a tentative term) who's a dragon who can't fly. Yes, a dragon. I tried writing "normal" fiction, and I just can't seem to manage it. And I like dragons.
In any case, the idea of a dragon who can't fly might be in part inspired by the Wyvern (or "wyverary") A-through-L in The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, which I read recently and greatly enjoyed.Of course, in A-through-L's case, his wings were chained to his sides because the law states, "Aeronautic locomotion is permitted only by means of Leopard or licensed Ragwort Stalk." In the case of the unfortunately nameless dragon in my so-called "short" story...well, I'm still undecided as to why he can't fly. Probably something as boring as malnutrition and having been in captivity all his life, unable to properly use his wings. I had the vague idea before reading The Girl Who...etc, but I'm just now fleshing it out. That's the one problem with all this reading nonsense: I have an idea for a story, continue my bookwormish life and discover a story with a similar idea, and then worry that I'm unconsciously copying that story, even though I'm consciously trying not to.
I found it characteristically strange that I have this dreadful fear of heights and yet I love the notion of flying. Under ones own power, that is. Must be all this finally-reading-of-classic-children's-fiction, Peter Pan included. "I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and away we'll go." How do unimaginative people live. You know, like, really live.
"Oh, but Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, you haven't left me any time at all just to-to live!"
"To live, child! What do you mean? As if you weren't living all the time!"
"Oh, of course I'd be BREATHING all the time I was going those things, Aunt Polly, but I wouldn't be living. You breathe all the time you're asleep, but you aren't living. I mean living- doing the things you want to do: playing outdoors, reading (to myself, of course), climbing hills, talking to Mr. Tom in the garden, and Nancy, and finding out all about the houses and the people and everything everywhere all through the perfectly lovely streets I came through yesterday. That's what I call living, Aunt Polly. Just breathing isn't living!" (Pollyanna, by Eleanor H. Porter, my most current read)
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