About A Dream

**Elvis Presley was not the actual person in my dream but I am inserting his name here instead of my friend’s real name.**

**Wolverine is not my actual boyfriend but it was just fun to say he was for a second.**

**Bob Dylan was really in my dream.**

**My cat’s name is Boobert. I love him but he’s not smart enough to ever read this.**

I woke up this morning without ever hearing Wolverine, my boyfriend, leave the house. Just another stitch in our ever-running seam I suppose. Boobert, my cat, was still sleeping at my feet and that was somehow comforting, as comforting as an unconscious animal is capable of being. I didn’t remember dreaming at that point, but just lay there for a bit while playing out my plans for the day in my sleepy head. Side note, I saw about 70% of those plans to their conclusions. Not bad for a spur of the moment sort of person. The thought of coffee and breakfast is really about the only thing that stirs me into actual movement in the morning, even when I’m not hungry. I could almost always go for a cup of coffee. Food is just something I’m supposed to do. I settled on pancakes due mainly in part to the lack of food in the kitchen and a box of pancake mix in the fridge.

While digesting my pancakes and scanning over my work related, computer associated necessities; I remembered fragments of a dream I had had a few hours previously. This was brought to my wakeful state by a newsletter sent from a friend and local musician, Elvis Presley. I scanned swiftly over the email before deleting it but was left with a lingeringly strange feeling. I didn’t know why and didn’t really think about it except for the fact that I knew it was there, hanging around somewhere in an either overly or underly evolved part of my brain. After another hour or so of computer work it came to me. I dreamt that Elvis had died of something and I remember being terribly saddened in the dream. Thinking how could something like this happen to such a descent person? That gloomy feel left by the memory of the dream suddenly bloomed into the more complete movie version.

I was at a concert in a darkly abandoned but spacious lecture room with concrete floors and neatly ordered rows of gray metal folding chairs all filled with hushed inhabitants and all looking forward. Their gaze was cast upon a sole, male individual sitting in a similar folding chair but he was facing them and holding an acoustic guitar in his hand, strumming it with casual intensity and singing nasally with a slight head tilt and even slighter head and body movements. It was Bob Dylan.

There was a woman seated behind Bob Dylan at a desk as he performed his winning songs. There was no stage but if there would have been she was at stage right, located close to a lighted doorway that served as the entrance. I suppose initially she was there collecting money for entry to the show but now the woman sat in shadows with a phone in her right hand holding it to her right ear. And talking. She was speaking quietly, of course, but not so quiet as to be unheard by myself, seated in the front row, and especially not unheard by Bob.

I only took notice of a few odd fragments from her one sided conversation but it appeared that she was speaking with a friend and the talk had nothing to do with work related matters. In her defense, if she was there for work purposes, her work was done for the night as the show was sold out and no other person could be admitted. But there was the small matter of talking over a performer’s performance, which Mr. Dylan did not take kindly to. After a small time Bob simply got up and left. The hushed crowd never rumbled or removed themselves from their folding chairs. Instead they sat undisturbed awaiting his return, which never came.

I don’t remember getting up or leaving my gray chair but I do remember seeing the marquee on my way out and noticed that Elvis Presley’s name had been crossed out with a cancellation sign reading, “The opener will not be performing tonight due to death”. It was at that point in the dream that I recalled Elvis’ misfortune of dying and felt deeply saddened by the fact that his death cost him his big shot.

Dreams are interesting in the sense that they tell us exactly what we think about shit in a really indirect way. We’re all dying for our big shot, we’re all sick to death of having some fuck head talk or screw with their phones during our performances, and we’re all hoping desperately for a crowd that will never abandon us even when we lose focus and abandon them momentary.

October 12, 2015

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