A brief glance at my "recently watched" list on Netflix reveals a diet heavy on science fiction, which is weird. Sci-fi is a genre that has never really interested me before, with its stock characters and situations—mad scientists, newly conscious and therefore neurotic computers, big breasted aliens, and end-of-the-world scenarios—all designed to appeal mostly to adolescent boys and man-children. Still, a girl can only reread (and rewatch) Pride and Prejudice so many times (she loved the Bollywood version, but the zombie version gave her nightmares), so to new frontiers in viewing I turned.
The list includes the new Star Trek film (illogical and noisy but amusing), Torchwood (all three series; gory and gritty and sexy, oh my), Doctor Who (most recently season 4; the tenth Doctor is so dreamy; sigh; sorry, what were we talking about?), and Firefly (a cowboy-space adventure from Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer; beloved by his fans, it left me cold). As a result of exposing my eyeballs and presumably my brain to all this intergalactic flash and fanfare, my dreams have become action-packed and gravity-defying.
In a recent one, I found myself rallying human troops against an impending alien invasion. I charged around a hospital-like setting, screaming instructions at a panicked citizenry on how to use ray guns and photon weaponry against the encroaching enemy. At some point, I looked down at my side, and there, on my left, where she always walked, was my Roma, all puffed up and in her prime, ready to kick some interplanetary butt. I was so thrilled and shocked to see her there that I woke up.
In a recent one, I found myself rallying human troops against an impending alien invasion. I charged around a hospital-like setting, screaming instructions at a panicked citizenry on how to use ray guns and photon weaponry against the encroaching enemy. At some point, I looked down at my side, and there, on my left, where she always walked, was my Roma, all puffed up and in her prime, ready to kick some interplanetary butt. I was so thrilled and shocked to see her there that I woke up.
Roma trotted by my side for more than thirteen years. I never felt much like a warrior or a princess during our sidewalk adventures. Perhaps because it was the other way around. Roma was the mighty huntress, scaler of tall rocks, detector of hidden treats, manipulatrix of human minds; I merely carried her kit. It was wonderful to see her. Stupid, wonderful dreams—and science fiction stories. They make anything seem possible. The dead live again; the world ends—almost; time bends and refracts; life is real and unreal at the same time. No wonder we return to them again and again; they are most illogical.
Have a good weekend. -z
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I've had that dream, but I never have the sense to wake up. "You're not dead yet? Great, let's talk about this list of things I want to cover while you're not dead." Your method is the most logical response.
ReplyDeleteHmm. Last night I dreamed that I was giving an impassioned anti-tort-reform speech to a movie star while eating cheese popcorn. I think I need to watch more sci-fi.
ReplyDeleteSmiling at the thought of Roma fighting aliens. No need to get her hackles up; she could have tamed entire races with those sweet eyes of hers.
BTW, "manipulatrix" is a great word.
That's awesome that you are powerful in your dreams and your best friend is there. I wish mine were more fiction (or science fiction!) than an alternate, but plausible, reality. So boring.
ReplyDeleteGlad you got Torchwood: love love love.