... or, is the term redundant?
Last night, I was finally able to really sleep again (this is rare for me). Long enough to induce R.E.M., I hope to tell you (even more rare of an event). And the rarest event of all, I was able to remember the dream. Well, sort of.
Brian, age about 18 (another rare event since usually when I dream of my son, he is about six years old) and I were walking along some high cliffs, somewhere in the tropics. The cliffs were not ordinary rock and shale cliffs but more like very high, steep sand dunes which bordered a little cove with a small beach and couple of shallow-water docks supported by log pilings. All of a sudden, Brian disappeared and a man was walking beside me who said, "don't worry, he (meaning Brian) went down there" and the man gestured to the beach down below. I could barely make out a small moving speck which presumably was my son.
I started to climb down the dune and realized all too late this was a very stupid move. Somehow, I fell but I was not hurt and I landed on my feet (well, after all, this was a dream) and right next to Brian. The cove and docks had turned into a seaside shopping village somewhere in the Caribbean. We walked awhile, looking in storefronts, and all of a sudden we came to a music store with a very odd window display... David Nelson, circa 1975 and wearing his white, rhinestone studded Nudie suit (picture on the inside sleeve of "Oh, What A Mighty Time:), and his friend, Tom Stern, were posing in the window. (Why, I do not know. This must have come from Pat Campbell mentioning Frank Wakefield the other night at the Booksmith).
Of course we went inside the music store and David and Tom were just leaving for a gig at someone's house and invited us along. The house was amazing, a mansion such as you see in The Hamptons (or maybe even, Hampton Court Palace). Once there, I wandered through the halls and was amazed to see the doll collection of the owner of the house, displayed as in a museum in glass display cases which were spread throughout several large rooms. I went through a door into a theatre in which the San Francisco Symphony was playing Mahler (now, where did THAT come from). There were about two hundred seats in the room but only about fifteen people were sitting in them. No sign of Mr. Nelson or Mr. Stern and Mr. McFee had long since cut and run on me. I looked down at myself and I was wearing a green cotton nightgown with coffee stains on the front left side and then I woke up.