Every Wednesday night I take my weekly Mefloquine pill – the one I mentioned last week as the source of a plethora of interesting twilight escapades in the land of Nod. Wednesdays are extra-special though, because the tablet appears to have its strongest effect immediately after this hump in the week. Often, the dreams are so strange that my mind does its best to forget them upon waking up. Probably a defence mechanism.
On Wednesday night, then, I experienced two loosely connected scenarios. In the first, my friend Ben and I, along with a random girl, were walking along a road and spotted a pair of abnormally massive giraffes nearby. A large crowd formed alongside us, and moments later a hot air balloon erupted from the populous and took off into the sky. A pair of French acrobats were the pilots, and they proceeded to perform athletic feats off of ropes hanging from the basket. Ben captured all of this on video with his digital camera – but most of the recording comprised of Ben and I screaming in mock-excitement, shouting things like “Oh my God! Oh my God!” over and over again.
Next, my buddy Mike was being reprimanded for playing basketball in a place where it was not allowed. The ball was taken from him. His response was to simply shout “My ball! My ball!”, with equal emphasis on each syllable, around fifty times. At this point in my dream, I found the chant quite annoying. After this, though, I was in a hot air balloon (a different one, I think), and there was a commentator/tour guide who was narrating our journey over a city. He made a sudden comment about how the tactic of shouting “My ball!” over and over was actually a fairly good way of ensuring one's claim over one's property. After this, I had new-found respect for Mike.
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