I had a dream last night that was taking place in a Victorian version of steam-punk reality hybrid between Glasgow, Sopot and Sherlock Holmes-style London. It was black & white, no sounds, except of people speaking. But even those sounds were muted, like when you hear people speaking when you dive your head in a bathtub. I couldn't understand what they were saying, it was neither English nor Polish, but I didn't care. What I cared about, was the code I was writing.
The computer I was working on was a combination between Enigma, MacBook Air and typing machine taken alive from Terry Gialliam's 'Brasil' with massive cathode ray tube screen. The software editor on the screen reminded of early Unix interfaces, with low-resolution pixelized fonts.
The rules of physics didn't apply, everything was floating around and moving in random directions, but it was all very normal to me. The location was changing frequently and rapidly. Sometimes I was in a very crowded room, sometimes I was riding on a low-tech rollercoaster, sometimes I was in a library. But my heavy computer with a big CRT screen was always in front of me, kind of attached to my body. With small telescopic rails to be more specific.
I was some character in a crime story, probably private detective, but more Doctor Watson than Sherlock Holmes. The key was to find a solution for some very complex mathematical problem, but I didn't know what it was or why or what for. I knew I had to solve it. I spend entire night typing on keyboard, with places changing, screen becoming smaller or bigger, modern or ancient, fonts being vivid or blurred. And my dream code being evidently some mix of Objective C, Python and Matlab.
I woke up early and realized I just had my first programming dream. I was excited. I guessed that it probably signified some profound interactions between prefrontal cortex, hypocampuss and reticular system in my brain. A subconsciouss response to deep-brain neuronal activity as a result of learning processes and memory consolidation. A neurotransmitter flood on the edge of coastal synaptic space, changing the structure of my brain cell connectivity. Simply - a logical result of spending some number of hours every day for the last few weeks learning those languages.
I only regret I didn't remember a single fuckin' line of what I was writting there, in the fuckin' dream. Damn it...
Image credit: Still from Terry's Gilliam 'Brasil'.
