My only recurring dream played again last night. The dream is remarkable not only for its fidelity to plot and regularity of occurrence, but also for the duration of its run. I have been dreaming this dream since the Johnson administration.
In the dream I discover an embankment or small mound of earth studded with dozens of arrowheads - glossy black obsidian, iron-stained chert, gray-blue flint, and quartz as white as pearls or clear as glass. Some are imperfect, but all are delicately knapped. I fill my pockets, and eventually wake up - bereft of pockets and arrowheads alike.
I am not an artifact hunter, and it has been many years since I found an arrowhead. Yet I am always inexplicably saddened by this dream. It leaves me feeling moody and morose.
Interpretations, anyone?
