I had another language-related dream a few nights ago. The last time I remember this happening, my sleeping mind conjured a weird connection between raccoons and the word chiefly.
This time, I dreamt I kicked a rubber ball at a door, my grandmother suddenly opened the door, and the ball got pronged on the pointy tail of a speech balloon near her head. Then we laughed, the way you do out of delight when something physically strange happens.
The ball was light – the kind that burst easily if they land in bushes. I don’t think there were words in the speech bubble at first; certainly there were none by the time I saw the ball slowly deflating on it.
Some people find dream reports boring. If you’re among them, I hope you didn’t read past the first line. I tend to be intrigued or at least mildly entertained by dreams – my own and others’. If you want to share one below, please do. Bonus points for linguistic examples.
Here’s one I just read in James Crumley’s novel One to Count Cadence:
I fell asleep, thinking, Surely soldiers gripe in Heaven . . . no one understands the reward for virtue . . . only the penalty for guilt. Then I dropped away to visions of a scarred leg dancing alone in the desert, a vast stone leg pursued by a girl-child, pretty and pink, but when she caught it, her hands rotted black and fell away a smy father’s voice tolled, “My name is Ozymandias, king of despair: / Look on my works, ye warrior and king.” (I always dream what I’ve read, though changed in my mind as if I’d written it. A mighty conceit.)