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Another dream of Pop and I. A curious one. First it's just me at a store, and I am looking at machine guns. I am apparently giving one a test-drive, and I am firing away with some gusto and good cinematic form, with knees bent, Rambo in the jungle just blazing away at Third Worlders. Then Pop comes into the store, and I get him to look at these babies. Interestingly, Pop is not receiving the same courteous service that I am enjoying. This is kind of the opposite of what happens in real life. After all, he is the one with the money and credit cards, while I am standing there dressed in rags and in need of a shave and a haircut. In this dream, the storekeepers seem to regard him as a sort of inferior, as irrelevant, while I am regarded like a regular big spender.
I am not exulting in the dream world over this relative neglect of Pop. I really want him to share in my excitement for this machine gun, and I effectively serve as a store representative and salesman getting Pop to try out the gun. He then proceeds to handle the gun very lackadaisically and dangerously, slinging it around on his shoulder, recklessly pointing it at people and frightening them. I try to instruct Pop on the right way to handle arms, but I catch myself also sometimes being inadvertently reckless. When Pop tries to fire the gun, it fails to work. I then take the gun and fire off a few rounds, but I am no longer like Mr. Movie Star as I fire it, as if some of Pop's maladroitness has rubbed off on me, as I seem to become more my father's son. And that's the end of the dream. It seems ... incomplete, missing something. The whole thing, as it is, doesn't readily make clear sense to me, but it is too suggestive to ignore it, and this gun theme is one of the recurrent themes in my dreams, or it used to be when I dreamed much more than I do now.
I am not exulting in the dream world over this relative neglect of Pop. I really want him to share in my excitement for this machine gun, and I effectively serve as a store representative and salesman getting Pop to try out the gun. He then proceeds to handle the gun very lackadaisically and dangerously, slinging it around on his shoulder, recklessly pointing it at people and frightening them. I try to instruct Pop on the right way to handle arms, but I catch myself also sometimes being inadvertently reckless. When Pop tries to fire the gun, it fails to work. I then take the gun and fire off a few rounds, but I am no longer like Mr. Movie Star as I fire it, as if some of Pop's maladroitness has rubbed off on me, as I seem to become more my father's son. And that's the end of the dream. It seems ... incomplete, missing something. The whole thing, as it is, doesn't readily make clear sense to me, but it is too suggestive to ignore it, and this gun theme is one of the recurrent themes in my dreams, or it used to be when I dreamed much more than I do now.
