I am one of those folks who rarely remember their dreams. I'm sure some Freudian reader out there is already getting ready to reveal what that reveals about me, but I really don't care. I rarely recall my dreams past waking, and I'm perfectly happy with that state of affairs.
When I do remember my dreams, like this morning, they are often science-fiction dreams (although I also had some sort of medievalist dream this morning, in which my colleague Pat featured, though I don't recall any other details). I have a long tradition of science-fiction dreams, usually of the "alien invasion" sort. When I was young, I think they were scary dreams, but I no longer find them terrifying in the least, I think--my memory of most of them is not clear enough to be sure.
But once in a while, I have a dream that is a bit more memorable, or that (when I wake up) I tell it to Rose quickly enough that the retelling makes it stick in my memory. Once, for example, I dreamed I had the Ebola virus. As I told her the next morning, in my dream it really wasn't so bad: all I had were the ubiquitous "flu-like symptoms," and I recovered quickly enough. I'm sure that dream eased me of all sorts of anxieties!
But my favorite dream memory is waking up in the middle of the night one time with the title of this post swirling through my brain. I don't remember anything else, such as what sort of narrative antecedents might have led up to this rhetorical question, but ever since, I guess it's fair to say I've had a slightly different perspective on the life of a clown.
But I've never had another dream of one. As far as I can remember.