Wes Anderson and the Brood of Glass Owls

One part of last night's strange, complicated dream: I'm visiting movie director Wes Anderson and his tall, pale-haired actress girlfriend in their New York City apartment, a dream apartment so physically impossible that it’s difficult to describe. A subway ran right under it, old-fashioned green train cars. On the roof: a menagerie of tiny animals. A family of tiny glass owls, translucent, brown; the mama owl no more than an inch high, the great brood of babies half that size or less, all rushing forward peeping for food. I think I fed them something, a liquid, from the tip of a blade of grass. Much congratulations, from Wes et al, of this feat.

Also a large insect, at first a shiny brown beetle several inches long; it removed one of its own legs to perform an operation on itself; then it turned out to be a female spider, tarantula-sized, and she’d used the leg to cut open her own abdomen, performing a caesarian, to get her baby or babies out. She stood, or Wes stood her, up on one side so we could see her underbelly, the red slash. How was she going to sew herself back up? Or was she going to slowly bleed out, had she sacrificed herself for her baby?
Hmm, says Freud.