Another strange dream last night, this one relating to yesterday’s post.

I am driving a lonely stretch of road, a desert, and up ahead is a tavern. Next thing I know I am inside the tavern. Running the tavern are deceased General Idea members Felix Partz and Jorge Zontal. This is a typical U.S. tavern, except for a neon sign promoting not beer but FILE Magazine. The truckers are irritated by the FILE sign, enough to unsettle me, though I am not sure what their problem is.

Behind the bar is a television set. A football game is playing. One of the truckers asks Zontal to change the channel, and he complies. We join a Harry Potter film in progress. The truckers stop their complaining and settle into the scene: Harry and his friends whispering under a tree. Now it is the characters that seem unsettled. They are waiting.

A horse-drawn carriage pulls up -- and out steps AA Bronson. He lays into the kids -- about their clothes, how childish they look, how it is “time to grow up.” They look away. Ronald Weasely starts to cry.

Bronson goes to the back of the carriage and removes a box marked “MASSAGE TABLE”. He asks Potter to help with the assembly and Potter tells him he has no interest in him or his box, and that he is “not welcome in these parts.”

As soon as he says the word “parts", Felix Partz turns into a bat and flies to the shoulder of Jorge Zontal who, upon contact with the bat, turns into an out-of-character “Rubeus Hagrid”, which is to say the actor Robbie Coltrane.

The TV goes black.

Outside the tavern, a horse-drawn carriage.

That’s when I wake up.

After years of forgettable dreaming, why is it that I am suddenly having the heaviest dreams, ever?

Sure, I would have the odd dream now and then, but they were so banal, so poorly sketched, that they evaporated upon waking, and I would be left not with fear or love but the day’s chores.

I will not describe my recent dreams, only that they affect how I feel upon waking, allowing others things to enter -- like yesterday, when I awoke to those Chilean miners who have been trapped underground a month and may not see daylight until Christmas.

What is that like, to be underground so long, and in those conditions? I imagine it will get worse once the miners are freed, the world hounding them, studying them, forever sending them back into that hole.

I had a dream last night -- a rare occurrence for me. They say we always dream, whether we remember our dreams or not. It has been ages since I had a dream I remembered. Last night I had one.

I was sitting at an outdoor café, distracted by the chatter behind me -- a young couple arguing about music. Arguments like these were not uncommon when I was young; music was all we cared about, all we wanted to do. Usually they revolved around who was the better band, something recently brought to mind by artist Brady Cranfield, whose Music Appreciation Society asked, Who is better, the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?

Cranfield’s question is a familiar one, and a question I have always refused. Even at fifteen I knew my response would be grist for a larger set of reductions. To wit: Of course Michael Turner doesn’t like strawberry ice cream – he’s a Rolling Stones fan. As for my response, I could never get past the choices, which is why I always said the Kinks.

What was strange about last night’s dream was the content -- there wasn’t any. The argument was about music, but there were no details, only a proposition that had success predicated on the failure of something else (not unlike Gore Vidal’s adage: It is not enough to succeed; others must fail). Thus, all I had besides the intensity of the combatants was an equation. So I did something I had not done in years: I attempted to introduce some content.

The content had to do with the Beatles and their use of instruments not associated with pop music -- specifically the French horn and the sitar. Not which is better, but how these instruments informed the recordings in which they were used.

In the past, attempts at content introduction were met with waking, the realization that dreams, no matter how good we might make them, are best forgotten. Last night was no different, though I did learn who played the French horn solo on "For No One".