A psychologist once told me that people do not begin to dream until they've fallen into a relatively deep sleep. I know her assertion to be false based upon my own experience and upon the reports of others. Some of us begin dreaming right after or perhaps right before falling asleep. Being either barely on one side of consciousness or perhaps in an intermediate state in which dreaming occurs is not quite the same as what is normally called lucid dreaming, but I'm able to notice some peculiar psychological phenomena as such.

Amongst these are spurious memories. In a dreaming state, I seem to remember events that did not occur in the waking world, though I don't experience those events within the dream. Because the events are not dreamt, but instead there is an apparent memory of these events, it can be harder upon becoming wakeful to discern that the apparent memory were false. But such spurious memories do disintegrate much like memories of dreamt events. In fact, I notice apparent memories often disintegrating within dreams, which disintegration is sufficiently troubling to make me more wakeful.

One disintegration, experienced a few mornings ago, was especially disturbing. I dreamt that I had an old Japanese bank note, and I had (spurious) memories of how I'd acquired the note. But I dreamt that some woman stole the note from me; and, as I dreamt of that theft, my apparent memories of how I'd come to have the note disintegrated, as if themselves stolen.

I had an odd dream this morning. The Woman of Interest was in Mexico, for some sort of anthropological or archæological project. This was at-or-near a city named Juarez, but it was not the well-known Juarez; rather, it was at a lake in the center of the state of Chihuahua (about where, in real life, the city of Chihuahua is located). Anyway she was taken captive by rebels or by criminals of some sort.

I was in Texas (G_d knows why) when she was kidnapped. So I began trying to make arrangements to get to this dream-world Juarez, the nearest airport to which was a dreadfully named Hitler - Little Hitler International. The next and perhaps only flight to HLH Int from the (unnamed) airport nearest to me would be that of the Smithsonian Institution's airline. (No, the Smithsonian does not have an airline in real life.) I was scrambling to get my passport, and would then try to persuade the SI airline to sell passage to me. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about a visa, but I figured that I'd have to deal with that at HLH.