ROGUE BRAIN, OLD TRAIN

APRIL 6, 2026 – I’m afraid my brain has gone rogue again, at least in my dreams. What worries me further is the power of suggestive writing—that is, making something occur simply by writing about it.

The reader will recall that in last Friday’s post, I described variations of the recurring “litigation dream,” similar to recurring “school dreams,” which occur  In either case, high anxiety swirls around some element of gross negligence—showing up ill-prepared or not showing up at all. Just last night, yet again I experienced a dramatic version of the same old “litigation dream.” Before I had to confront the consequences of my open-and-shut case of extreme and willful malpractice, I solved the matter in full simply by waking myself up. Not since last week’s “litigation dream” (featuring Marshall Joseph Stalin as a deponent in a case), have I felt so relieved upon seeing the canopy of my parachute open after I’d pulled the ripcord on a disturbing dream.

Last night’s version was classic: the start of a trial held in a nondescript courtroom. Things got off to a sloppy start all the way around. Opposing counsel was wearing a black and blue checkered shirt; no tie, no jacket. If he was out of compliance with the universal dress code in American courtrooms, I was even worse off. I was wearing a clown suit—no kidding—with no tie. It occurred to me that in response to the judge’s certain reprimand to be leveled at each of us, I could argue that, well, at least I was wearing a suit, and the fact that it was designed for a circus was wholly appropriate, given the sleights of hand that opposing counsel was likely to pull on his honor. Fortunately, it also occurred to me that such sarcasm might not go over well with the judge and might unduly prejudice my client’s chances for fair judicial treatment.

Speaking of my client, early on in the dream I realized that my client wasn’t in the courtroom—A; and B. My client wouldn’t be in the courtroom because not only had I not told him when and where the trial would be held, but I hadn’t even informed him that a trial had been scheduled. Yet, my client was an essential witness to his case—a civil matter in which he was the plaintiff.

Matters worsened from there. All that I had at my disposal was a white legal pad and a yellow legal pad—no pen; no exhibits, nothing. Just blank-lined paper. The other attorney, I noticed, wasn’t a lot better off, but at least his single note pad had lots of scribbling on it—questions, I presumed, for his witness, who was also the lawyer’s client, who was present.

Before the judge even entered the courtroom, I knew I was worse than doomed. That I could be so irresponsible was a problem for later disposition. In the immediate term, how would I avoid disbarment for this complete lapse in judgment? And what was with the clown suit? Might that by itself lead to a civil commitment proceeding? My legal problems were mounting.

It was at that point that the “wake up” call . . . as in “gotta go take a pee” . . . saved the day . . . er, night.

Soon, however, I was back in the Land of Nod, dreaming away. The trial was now a fully resolved concern of the past—good riddance—but in its place was . . . a dental office. This didn’t mark much of an improvement, since trials and a trip to the dentist can produce similar side effects that only powerful pain killers can adequately address.

The dental practice of the dream was a far cry from the one my wife and I patronize in reality. The latter is a “state of the art” operation, headed by my wife’s five-star nephew, Chad, who trained under his five-star dentist father, now retired. A graduate of Carleton College and the University of Minnesota School of Dentistry, Chad is a veritable scholar, a star athlete, a terrific family man (immediate and extended), and a brilliant conversationalist—you name the topic. All the other dentists and personnel at Boger Dental are likewise topflight. My hygienist, Michelle, for example, with B.S. and M.S. degrees in dental hygiene from Old Dominion, teaches teachers of dental hygienists. She’s worked on my teeth and gums for countless years and wields the latest tools of dental technological advances with the deftness of a concert violinist playing presto passages at the very highest register—entirely pain-free for the patient. I actually look forward to “going to the dentist”—four times a year—and my most recent cleaning was just today. I’d anticipated it with eagerness, not fear or displeasure.

Back to the dreamland dental office—which bore a disturbing contrast to Boger Dental. It was dark and drab. Dull burgundy was the color theme, and it begged for an upgrade. If a dentist was on hand, I didn’t meet her—or him. The only person with whom I interacted was the hygienist who bore absolutely no resemblance to the paragon of her profession, cheerful Michelle. No, the “dream” hygienist, who was actually the opposite of a “dream hygienist,” reminded me of the Russian woman who was in charge of my sleeping car on the Trans-Siberian Railway back in the day of Brezhnev.

The Russian woman projected unstinted authority by way of her heft, reinforced by her formidable countenance under a military cap with a hammer-and-sickle insignia on a bold Red Star. If there was any doubt about her ability to keep the lid on things, her manure-kicking black boots signaled that she took no prisoners. Among other duties, she policed the carriage against unticketed riders. On the approach to each of the stops along the seven-day journey across Siberia, her scowl kept everyone on their toes. Her routine was to open noisily the carriage door as the train slowed down, so as to optimize efficiency in detraining and boarding passengers. Often Russian men—more often than not, quite inebriated—would attempt to hitch rides for the last kilometer or two to the station stop. This Red Star woman would have none of it. Incredulous, I once watched her plant her boot on the chest of a drunken hitch-hikers and with the force of angry Russian bear, shove him off the ladder and down the sharp embankment along the rail bed.

Anyway, she reappeared as the “dream” hygienist, and I, it seemed, was the would-be “free-rider” aboard her Red Star train carriage. Instead of the comfortable chair in Michelle’s operatory, my place was on the floor of the dingy dream dental office. The Russian held me down with her foot-in-boot, and the cleaning that ensued consisted of a debtak flossing that resembled more a dental flogging. She used floss that looked and felt like twine, and it hurt like hell as she worked it between my teeth as if she’d confused my mouth with a dancing bear training camp in the heart of Siberia. When she was finished, she told me I was “good to go.”

And how.

I don’t know and don’t wish to speculate why my brain has gone rogue in the dream department. My readers should be relieved, however, in knowing that however rogue and crazy my dreams might be, I’ll never have my hands on nuclear weapons. If you’re worried about our rogue president in this regard, well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.

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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson