What I dreamed last night:
I was at war with gods, Greek-type gods, and it was as hopeless as you’d expect. We (the people, I guess) had no chance at all; I was dreaming a Hollywood film without a scripted sliver a hope.
The gods were giant birds. They were just giants. They were colossal statues. They were people’s fathers. They lived in the air, on the earth, and in the water.
I remember a giant amphitheater that was shaking apart; there was an ocean that was nothing but manure (and yes, I tried to swim it to escape). These are just a few swatches of what stuck upon waking up.
My wife could tell you that I have weird dreams like this quite frequently (my response is always, “Who doesn’t?”), and so I spent a minute or two thinking about what could possibly be commingling in my mind to produce this. Here is a short list of maybe ingredients:
Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy”; Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed; Halloween; birthdays; ed tech issues at work; digital identity; running and staying in shape as winter approaches (Winter is coming!); all of my mixed feelings about Achilles; trying to metamorphize as a teacher again and again; how much I miss being in Door Country with my family; how little money I’m going to make next year. Other stuff.