Last night I was hangin’ with David Bowie. Though the hair was straight outta the Beeb recordings in 2000, the attire and manner were right in line with Black Tie, White Noise. We were working on bringing a new amphitheater to the town where I live, and when it was all over, he’d convinced me to take over the town and rule it like a queen. In the meantime he’d convince Elton John to play opening night . . .
The last couple of nights my dreams have been this way: crazy and vivid.
The night before was like this, though no recording artists showed up to aid me in a quest to bring arts and entertainment to a local berg. I recall in one dream that I did a lot of running around inside tunnels, and that when I was finished with that I went back to my job dancing at a lesbian strip club (what do you call a “gentlemen’s club” just for the women who love women?), where I eventually left with this stunning black woman who just loved my eyes. I think she had me confused with someone else, but it’s a dream, right?
Here is something I’m noticing. The last few months I’ve been crazy busy with writing, editing, and looking for work. So Saturday night all three more or less converge and come to a conclusion: I finished up my first week at The Berg (no, really, that’s what I see printed on stuff here at the hotel: “The Berg”. Yay, Penny!) and I finish my almost final edit on Couples Dance. Sunday I’m sorta, kinda looking for things to do, because I’m not writing, not starting anything new, just kicking some ideas around, and come the night–the vivid dreams return.
Just as they did last night.
I can rationalize why this is happening. A bit of depression has dissipated and I’m relaxing. Relaxing means less stress, less stress means the brain isn’t all fried up thinking about what to do next. Also, when I’m writing I’m thinking about characters, thinking about stories, thinking about what comes next, and that keeps the creative centers of the mind so full of signal that when I go to sleep, it simply shuts down: there isn’t anything left it wants to process.
That’s not the case at the moment. Right now I’m kicking back and playing with toys. I’m mind mapping and literally mapping out a bunch of planets–which, let me tell you, the more I get into this last thing, the crazier it looks. Regardless, it’s all easy on the brain: it’s almost like riding a bike, little thought at all, just move forward.
My creative centers are saying, “Hey, we’re bored, when ya gonna do somethin’? If you’re not going to do something now, how’s about we give you a little push . . .”
In it’s own way my mind is telling me to get back to work. “Do something, honey, or tomorrow night you’ll discover yourself pregnant with the succubus child of Selena Gomez.” Which, to be honest, I wouldn’t find all that strange . . .
I mean, I’ve done stranger.