Dream log...

After a bit of a still summer, my weird dreams are finally coming back. If I could do only one thhing during my career as a psychologist, it would be to team up with a computer engineer and design a machine that could record people's dreams. As it is, I´m left writting what I can remember here.

Last night´s dream was one of THOSE. The type that make you feel you´ve got something, you can touch it, describe it, even hug it close to you so as to never let it go. And then you wake up. They always make me despair a little. Things are usually so fluid in dreams that when I get to hold on to something and I forget that I was dreaming in the first place, I manage to trick myself into thinking I have some kind of ownership. If I weren´t so human, Morpheous would probably have me hanged from the highest tree in the kingdom.

So what am I missing so much? A fox, with the loveliest redish brown fur and shinny green eyes with a knowking and mischievous glint. It was missing the usual whit tip on the tail and gloves. It was so lovely, and it´s fur felt like a lama´s. I was dreaming about being high up on a mountain top, in a witch circle, in a witch town. My mother and I were there for a ritual, and the circle was full of witches dressed in black hoods. At their feet dozens of black wolves were strung up doped with some noxious brew, prepared for sacrifice. Other witches were arriving, each cariying a pair of foxes, each more lovely than the last. So I took one and kept it.

When everything was ready for the ceremony, each witch lined up with their animal encased in a metal box with a long slim opening at the top and the poor beast´s snout sticking out one end. All the women brandished long knives with a hook on the tip, like a harpoons, and one by one theyplunged it into their sacrificial beast, at the top of the skull, and draagged it down the opening in the box to cleave themin two. My poor victim was a cartoonish guinea pig that made terrified face at me and was too small for it´s box. I kept trying to stab it but it managed to dodge my knife, till it finally died of a heart attack from the fright. I took it out of the box and examined it, hoping it was only playing dead. Guilty, is my least favourite feeling. And then I woke up, no fox, and no murder weapon.