In which I ponder dreams

Dreams are a curious thing, not least because nobody knows precisely what they are. Are they the result of unresolved tension in your psyche rising up to work itself out without the interference of your conscious mind? Are they bits and pieces of your memories and thoughts, all stirred up in a nice Freudian soup to be used as a tool to unlock your deepest fears? Or are they just random shards of nonsense reassembled into surrealistic pictures?

Yesterday I blogged about sloth. Since I'm in the very, VERY early stages of Julia Grey #4, I wrote that blog entry last week when I had a little extra time. I filed it away mentally and left it there while I got on with the business of writing my novel. Or so I thought. Sunday night, I dreamed I was staying at a Ritz-Carlton resort with extensive, lush grounds. (I knew it was a Ritz because the lobby looked exactly like the Ritz lobby in Manhattan--dark wood walls, elegant furniture, and extremely courteous waiters...) Anyway, the grounds were thick with animal life--baboons, macaques, and other assorted things that chattered in the trees. I boarded a tiny jitney bus to do some sightseeing, and right after me came a tiny sloth. It was chocolate brown, about the size of a toddler, and just like a toddler, it held up its arms to be carried. I settled it onto my hip, where it stayed for eight hours, its little arms looped about my neck. (My husband, who has sloth experience, assures me that this is precisely what they do--they simply act like people are trees and they hang out on you for quite awhile.) And here's the great part--no one at the Ritz seemed remotely alarmed by the fact that I was carrying a sloth around. Now that's good service.