Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Strange and very vivid dream about my mom, in which she was communicating with me from the dead. I was leaving on some trip, getting ready to go to the airport, and I was being sent off by others (including my dad, who was alive in the dream), with some ceremony, as though everyone knew this was to be a profound and meaningful voyage. The fact that I'd also embarked on a mysterious dialog with my mom was of a piece with the trip itself, and people seemed to be aware of that, too. It was hard for me to tell if my mom was happy or not, or approving of me or not. At one point I think I asked her to confirm that she loved me. The communication seemed to phase in and out, and though she was occasionally visible before me we never were conversing eye-to-eye. Generally, I perceived her as an overwhelming, supernatural presence permeating my mind and observing my actions. In the end I realized that I could communicate even more directly with her by drawing pictures of hats. I drew several hats - bowler hats with narrow brims - and was not very satisfied with how they looked. However, I knew my mom understood something in each stroke of my pen. I was compelled to draw a minimalist face on one hat, with simple strokes representing the mouth, nose, eyes.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

I was at some college where a famous writer was an English professor. I'd heard that his favorite piece of advice was this: "Every story must have an alias. Why not you?" I took this to mean a story should be written from one's own point of view, or at least be based on one's own experiences.

At this college, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh were members of the faculty. I was hanging out with my dad and we spotted Phil entering a building with his bass, possibly on his way to teach a class. My dad said, "Look who that is," and walked over to introduce himself. I knew that Phil was very guarded about his privacy so I was worried that this would not go well. Some bodyguard or assistant tried to intercept my dad before he got to Phil. My dad persisted and finally got Phil's attention. Phil was trying to tell him to leave him alone, refusing to shake my dad's extended hand. Then my dad was back by my side. He told me that Phil had hit him. My dad was lying in some kind of bed or stretcher, stricken, with a pane of broken glass extended over his body. I understood this to represent his glasses, and that they had been shattered when Phil hit him.