When I sleep, I have cinematic dreams. They can be sweeping epics, romantic comedies, sci-fi flicks or even sitcoms. Often I find them entertaining, rarely scary, occasionally erotic, and typically not helpful in understanding my inner world.
This morning I awoke to a dream that must have been intended for someone else. In it a Cortney Cox looking character comforts a Jennifer Aniston looking character. I think there was a man involved in “Jennifer’s” distress, but I lost this detail as “Cortney” crawled into the front seat of a car with “Jennifer.” They were gently lit as it was nighttime. I mostly saw their faces in a warm glow. They leaned up against each other cheek to cheek. “Jennifer” wept softly as “Cortney” wiped away tears. And BAM! The next thing you know they are making out.
I awoke and cursed filmmaker David Lynch.
I know this has something to do with Mulholland Drive, his 2001 bizarre mystery thriller replete with gorgeous lesbian lovemaking scenes. Some years ago I sat through three quarters of the DVD when the player encountered a problem with the disc. Up to this point I sat confused by the unravelling plot and the random appearance of a man in a gorilla suit. I had to know how it ended, if nothing else than for my personal sanity. I tried to skip the damaged section by jumping a chapter, but turns out Lynch did not put any chapter breaks in the DVD. He wants you to watch the whole thing through. Ugh!
Holding onto to the fagments (um fragments) of the story that made some sense, I dashed to the DVD rental place around the corner and asked for a replacement to the damaged DVD. I ran home then I fast forwarded through the entire film until I got to the spot where I had to stop on the first DVD. I watched the rest of the movie, and as the credits rolled I cursed David Lynch for making such a beautiful and enigmatic film.
I have since decided that the Mulholland Drive serves as an elaborate joke that Lynch played on the rest of us for his personal satisfaction. Sometime in the near future he will stumble upon my blog post (I feel certain he does a Google vanity search at least thrice daily) and laugh and laugh.
So then I have this dream, a dream that must have been designed for Christine Bakke, or Mila or Jayna or Carcker Lilo or some lesbian or bisexual woman in the world (or hetero guy who gets off on watching two women which I find kinda weird). Joe G will most likely chalk it up to multiple personalities asserting themselves in my sleep. Conservative Aglicans will asset this proves to their previous diagnosis of schizophrenia.
But I blame David Lynch, and you should too.