DreamTime

In a recent dream of Jen’s, I owned a Piper Cub but had to park it in outer space due to zoning restrictions in our neighborhood. She came into the kitchen while Oni and I were deep in conversation about which planets might have the best monthly rates (Mars), which nebulae had the best views (Crab) and who had the best safety record (Orion).

Sadly, she woke before Oni and I could sort this out so now we’re stuck with a plane in our dream driveway, collecting exorbitant fines from the city of Quincy, MA.
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This past week I had the most wondrous dream. I was Sherman Alexie, the fab-ola Spokane/ Coeur d'Alene poet, writer, filmmaker, and occasional comedian with the Russian last name.

I’m seated at a glossy black, baby grand piano, playing the shit out of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.  I was doing up some serious theatrical flourishes too. I was Cziffra, Horowitz and Ashkenazy combined.

I finished, leapt up and away from the piano, as though it had possessed me, to a raucous, foot stamping standing O. I looked down at my hands, stunned at what they just accomplished, and thought, 'wow, ain't that something -- I can play piano.'
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Another Jen dream -- she and Oni were down in Truro swimming when giant monster waves came up. SURF’S UP! Jen ran to get, not her surfboard but, her ’59 Cherry Red Eldorado. She’s groovin’ along, looks around and sees ten other car surfers. They’re riding ’58 burnt orange De Sotos, ’57 baby blue Lincolns, marigold yellow ’59 Buicks and more.

More Dreamtime now, please.

Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2