I Love to Proclaim It
Tuesday, July 14. 2009
I had a very vivid dream this morning which might signify nothing. Biblically, however, dreams are often important. So I want to record as much detail as I can recall right now, before the memories follow the morning mist.
Two science fiction masters were involved. I don't know who they were; their names weren't mentioned nor were any details of their works, and I didn't notice any revealing physical features like white muttonchops. (Of course, Dr. Asimov was a self-avowed atheist, so at least one of my visitors was certainly not him...though I suppose the other could be.) In the absence of names, I'll call them by their traits: Dr. Optimist and Dr. Christian, or Dr. O and Dr. C for brevity.
The first moment I remember of the dream had me coming back into my hotel room to regard Dr. O sitting at my desk and writing. In typical dream mentality, I didn't find this odd. I had a copy of one of his short story collections there in my room, and I sat on my bed and asked Dr. O some questions about one of the pieces which had nipped at my spirit in the past—a tale of an alien and some plight or other he had encountered. The story, I reminded Dr. O as I sat there with the book almost closed in my left hand and my index finger holding my place, left our alien in the end still partly engaged with his issue. That is, the plot never fully resolved; it was one of those stories which left some closing action to the imagination of the reader. Despite the supposedly pleasant mental exercise such a piece involves, they've always irritated me as a rule, because I'd rather know the author's intent for his story than make up one on my own. (After all, isn't it up to the author to finish his task, I reason?) Dr. O seemed bemused. "My dear boy," he said, "of course the unstated ending is a happy one." He cocked his head at me, wrinkled his brow as though trying to work out my problems. "Why in the world would you ever think otherwise?"
For whatever reason random venue shifts occur in dreams, I found myself now in the hotel room of Dr. C. I recall being overjoyed at having the opportunity to speak with two great masters in one day, though I don't remember being concerned about leaving Dr. O alone. Dr. C chatted a bit, then someone came in from the patio of the room and announced that the choir he had reserved was here.
As the half dozen or so singers were filing in, Dr. C said, "Let's give him a moment in case he wants to leave. Perhaps he's a Jehovah's Witness or somesuch." I said, "No, I'd love to stay." Dr. C and his rented choir opened their matching black folders—just like the ones I'd sung choral music from for years in church choir myself, and I had a pang of nostalgia and melancholy since I'm not involved in church music anymore—and they began to sing.
They weren't great; these vocalists were rented, after all. They were making pencil notes in the music as they went along, so clearly this was the first time they had actually seen the piece. I don't know where the accompaniment was coming from, but I got the impression it was pre-recorded.
Then one of the singers suddenly left, and Dr. C was handing me the extra set of music. I followed along for a bit, trying to find my place. There were both English and Spanish lyrics in the music book I'd been handed. A chorus was ending, and then Dr. C sang a verse solo, in a clear, high tenor. The song was "Redeemed."
Because the good doctor was on tenor, I took bass. I still hadn't found my place in the music, so I improvised, but this is a song I've sung all my life, so I had no problem filling in. I felt the chill one often experiences when a situation seems like the right place, the right time, the right action, and everything in the universe aligning for just a brief moment.
Then someone bustled behind me to get past which distracted me, and I noticed there were coupons in the margins of the music pages and a note which apologized that the coupons were not a standard size, and then I woke up.
I'm not sure if this dream has any meaning at all to me for writing or spirituality, but the confluence of the two and the vivid images of the dream which remained after I woke were striking, so I felt the need to record these scenes before the details evaporated further. And what good's a blog if you can't indulge the odd strange compulsion?
I had a very vivid dream this morning which might signify nothing. Biblically, however, dreams are often important. So I want to record as much detail as I can recall right now, before the memories follow the morning mist.
Two science fiction masters were involved. I don't know who they were; their names weren't mentioned nor were any details of their works, and I didn't notice any revealing physical features like white muttonchops. (Of course, Dr. Asimov was a self-avowed atheist, so at least one of my visitors was certainly not him...though I suppose the other could be.) In the absence of names, I'll call them by their traits: Dr. Optimist and Dr. Christian, or Dr. O and Dr. C for brevity.
The first moment I remember of the dream had me coming back into my hotel room to regard Dr. O sitting at my desk and writing. In typical dream mentality, I didn't find this odd. I had a copy of one of his short story collections there in my room, and I sat on my bed and asked Dr. O some questions about one of the pieces which had nipped at my spirit in the past—a tale of an alien and some plight or other he had encountered. The story, I reminded Dr. O as I sat there with the book almost closed in my left hand and my index finger holding my place, left our alien in the end still partly engaged with his issue. That is, the plot never fully resolved; it was one of those stories which left some closing action to the imagination of the reader. Despite the supposedly pleasant mental exercise such a piece involves, they've always irritated me as a rule, because I'd rather know the author's intent for his story than make up one on my own. (After all, isn't it up to the author to finish his task, I reason?) Dr. O seemed bemused. "My dear boy," he said, "of course the unstated ending is a happy one." He cocked his head at me, wrinkled his brow as though trying to work out my problems. "Why in the world would you ever think otherwise?"
For whatever reason random venue shifts occur in dreams, I found myself now in the hotel room of Dr. C. I recall being overjoyed at having the opportunity to speak with two great masters in one day, though I don't remember being concerned about leaving Dr. O alone. Dr. C chatted a bit, then someone came in from the patio of the room and announced that the choir he had reserved was here.
As the half dozen or so singers were filing in, Dr. C said, "Let's give him a moment in case he wants to leave. Perhaps he's a Jehovah's Witness or somesuch." I said, "No, I'd love to stay." Dr. C and his rented choir opened their matching black folders—just like the ones I'd sung choral music from for years in church choir myself, and I had a pang of nostalgia and melancholy since I'm not involved in church music anymore—and they began to sing.
They weren't great; these vocalists were rented, after all. They were making pencil notes in the music as they went along, so clearly this was the first time they had actually seen the piece. I don't know where the accompaniment was coming from, but I got the impression it was pre-recorded.
Then one of the singers suddenly left, and Dr. C was handing me the extra set of music. I followed along for a bit, trying to find my place. There were both English and Spanish lyrics in the music book I'd been handed. A chorus was ending, and then Dr. C sang a verse solo, in a clear, high tenor. The song was "Redeemed."
Because the good doctor was on tenor, I took bass. I still hadn't found my place in the music, so I improvised, but this is a song I've sung all my life, so I had no problem filling in. I felt the chill one often experiences when a situation seems like the right place, the right time, the right action, and everything in the universe aligning for just a brief moment.
Then someone bustled behind me to get past which distracted me, and I noticed there were coupons in the margins of the music pages and a note which apologized that the coupons were not a standard size, and then I woke up.
I'm not sure if this dream has any meaning at all to me for writing or spirituality, but the confluence of the two and the vivid images of the dream which remained after I woke were striking, so I felt the need to record these scenes before the details evaporated further. And what good's a blog if you can't indulge the odd strange compulsion?
Two science fiction masters were involved. I don't know who they were; their names weren't mentioned nor were any details of their works, and I didn't notice any revealing physical features like white muttonchops. (Of course, Dr. Asimov was a self-avowed atheist, so at least one of my visitors was certainly not him...though I suppose the other could be.) In the absence of names, I'll call them by their traits: Dr. Optimist and Dr. Christian, or Dr. O and Dr. C for brevity.
The first moment I remember of the dream had me coming back into my hotel room to regard Dr. O sitting at my desk and writing. In typical dream mentality, I didn't find this odd. I had a copy of one of his short story collections there in my room, and I sat on my bed and asked Dr. O some questions about one of the pieces which had nipped at my spirit in the past—a tale of an alien and some plight or other he had encountered. The story, I reminded Dr. O as I sat there with the book almost closed in my left hand and my index finger holding my place, left our alien in the end still partly engaged with his issue. That is, the plot never fully resolved; it was one of those stories which left some closing action to the imagination of the reader. Despite the supposedly pleasant mental exercise such a piece involves, they've always irritated me as a rule, because I'd rather know the author's intent for his story than make up one on my own. (After all, isn't it up to the author to finish his task, I reason?) Dr. O seemed bemused. "My dear boy," he said, "of course the unstated ending is a happy one." He cocked his head at me, wrinkled his brow as though trying to work out my problems. "Why in the world would you ever think otherwise?"
For whatever reason random venue shifts occur in dreams, I found myself now in the hotel room of Dr. C. I recall being overjoyed at having the opportunity to speak with two great masters in one day, though I don't remember being concerned about leaving Dr. O alone. Dr. C chatted a bit, then someone came in from the patio of the room and announced that the choir he had reserved was here.
As the half dozen or so singers were filing in, Dr. C said, "Let's give him a moment in case he wants to leave. Perhaps he's a Jehovah's Witness or somesuch." I said, "No, I'd love to stay." Dr. C and his rented choir opened their matching black folders—just like the ones I'd sung choral music from for years in church choir myself, and I had a pang of nostalgia and melancholy since I'm not involved in church music anymore—and they began to sing.
They weren't great; these vocalists were rented, after all. They were making pencil notes in the music as they went along, so clearly this was the first time they had actually seen the piece. I don't know where the accompaniment was coming from, but I got the impression it was pre-recorded.
Then one of the singers suddenly left, and Dr. C was handing me the extra set of music. I followed along for a bit, trying to find my place. There were both English and Spanish lyrics in the music book I'd been handed. A chorus was ending, and then Dr. C sang a verse solo, in a clear, high tenor. The song was "Redeemed."
Because the good doctor was on tenor, I took bass. I still hadn't found my place in the music, so I improvised, but this is a song I've sung all my life, so I had no problem filling in. I felt the chill one often experiences when a situation seems like the right place, the right time, the right action, and everything in the universe aligning for just a brief moment.
Then someone bustled behind me to get past which distracted me, and I noticed there were coupons in the margins of the music pages and a note which apologized that the coupons were not a standard size, and then I woke up.
I'm not sure if this dream has any meaning at all to me for writing or spirituality, but the confluence of the two and the vivid images of the dream which remained after I woke were striking, so I felt the need to record these scenes before the details evaporated further. And what good's a blog if you can't indulge the odd strange compulsion?
Craig on :
Brent on :
Dennis on :