I had a great dream last night, the latest in a long running serialization. Ever since learning to play the drums, I have often had variations on a dream that I am on stage playing with some famous bunch of musicians. Invariably, my drum kit is broken or missing vital pieces and I can't play along properly. Sometimes my drumsticks get smaller and smaller, whittling themselves down to nothing while I play.
Geez, that sounded like some Freudian imagery right there. Ahum.
These dreams are a bit like a sex dream that's all horny build-up and never getting it on. They're very realistic - I go through all of the actual thrill of being on stage with Mick Jagger, or The Police or whomever but the inevitable let down just kills me every time. The other musicians are never angry (they don't even seem to notice much ... hmmmm.)
The latest installment was very interesting, it was the resurrected Johnny and June Carter Cash. I think it was the first time another woman has been present on stage with me (note to self - think about this more). We were playing some kind of hootenany affair and having a great time. I actually did get to play along for the early part of the set just on a snare drum. After an intermission we were supposed to get to some more rockin' material, and I was STOKED. Problem was, my cymbals and stool were missing as well as my proper drumsticks - all I had was knitting needles.
I told Johnny I'd be right back, I figured someone had just loaded some of my gear in somewhere else in the venue by mistake, so I went walking. The area behind the stage turned into a huge, many football fields-sized flea market with all manner of crazy junk. It was impossible to spot my drum hardware in the terrible mess. I followed a hallway out beside the stage and soon realized the club we were playing at was attached to a hotel - so through the hotel I went, corridor after corridor, stairways up and down looking for my lost drum gear. Of course, I got lost and never made it back to finish the set.
I woke up this morning before the alarm remembering the dream, and let my mind drift over it for a little while. It seems to me that that the giant flea market behind the stage is a very interesting metaphor for all of the collected junk, ephemera, worries and "baggage" that sit there just behind all of my creativity, nagging away at it a little bit. Stuff gets lost in there, you know? Good stuff. And if I worry too much and go off hunting for things in junk-worry-land, sometimes I never get back to the place I need to be in.
It sounds a bit depressing, but it was actually a light hearted and enjoyable little dream, and I felt like I advanced the plot a little bit.
Since I'm on the subject, I have to tell you about my hands-down best dream ever. Very very ultra-real life vivid. I found myself suddenly in a boiler room with all manner of giant rotating gears and screaming, steam-shooting Metropolis type machinery. A little man was running all of this stuff, and I asked him where I was. He looked quite startled to see me, and said "shit - you're not supposed to see this room, how did you manage to get in here?" I said I didn't know, and I asked him again where I was. "You're in the engine room in your head that makes your dreams. It's also kind of the place you go when you die, hard to explain - now get out of here!" and I woke up.
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