Last Tuesday night, I dreamed that the Official Report had sent me to cover a remote meeting of the Russian Parliament, which was being held in a huge and grand old theatre in a freezing town in northern Siberia. My colleague, Robert, and I were in one of the boxes near the stage and had a pretty decent view of the speakers. Robert, who speaks Russian, peered down at the seats below and translated the speeches for me, while I sat and wrote at a small table.
Notes for Freudian Interpretation
I had decided not to write about this dream, partly because the previous dream I wrote about was also about me logging a meeting of Parliament but mainly because it didn't refer to anything I'd been thinking about or had seen, so I didn't have anything in particular to talk about in these notes. The best that I could come up with was the fact that, during the day, I'd watered my three giant plants with water from a bottle that I'd taken from Robert's desk. I couldn't see that that would spark off any particular subconscious associations. Russia hasn't been on my mind or mentioned in my hearing for ages, as far as I'm aware.
However, the other night, I had another Russian dream. I was on a steam train going through some southern Russian region at night. It appeared to be some time in the late 19th century, judging by the remarkable clothes and dramatic hats and facial hair of the other people in my compartment. I had with me my printmaking bag and, as I regarded the cardboard tube that I use to carry large sheets of blank paper, I thought of all the brilliant pictures I was going to be able to draw when we reached whatever mysterious city we were heading for.
I still can't think of any associations worth mentioning, but the fact that Russia cropped up twice in an otherwise Russia-free week is fairly remarkable, if only by the admittedly low standards that this blog sets for remarkability.