I found myself getting ready for a dress rehearsal
of the play "Music Man"--it was the same play
I performed when I was 14, the golden-patches and
thick air conditioned evenings of the summer of 92
the summer of meaningful kisses and three hour
teen-toddling phone conversations--the summer in life
when the opposite sex becomes an orchard of wished of scent
blossoming petals of lips sweet and innocuous
The summer I found myself on stage, the conic eclipse of a stage
light imprisoning my every gesture in a bubble of light.
The play was being directed by the same director as it was
half-my lifetime ago the impeccable Miss Pamela-tucker White
who during rehearsal, would cackle out loud
and laugh at the scenes when no one
else would laugh at--The vivacious beautiful lanky Swiss
telaborone flesh of Pam White whose belief that I could make something
of myself has lead me to relentlessly devote a vocation of a life
in the arts. In the dream the theatre is dank and gloomy and I
am told that I am given another opportunity to portray charlie
the anvil salesman. I am nervous because I cannot find my
script to memorize my lines. While looking around the womb
of the dressing room (which in the dream was in the front of
the building, the area normally associated with the lobby) I saw
the first born son of my Muse and he beckoned me to follow
him up a ladder. As I did I found myself in my muses house
only the house was one apartment bedizened with day glow
colors on the wall (like splotches of finger paint) that were
cocooned shaped and toppling. I gave my muse a long
elongated embrace, sprinkled with the confetti of cosmic
energy and light that is the mystery of the universe.
Her son wished for me to follow him into
his mothers closet and even though she didn't seem to mind
thinking it uncouth I refused, and descended the ladder
back into the dressing room where my fellow actors were
doubting my Thespian ability to perform my role. I was
worried because I couldn't find the script. Pam then came
up to me and gave me a one-armed wrap around wing
hug, informing me not to worry, that I will be fine
performing my roll. I still lurched around the back
seeking my script when a dirty-rag muffin haired
toddler no older than four whispered to me
"Pssssssssst." She gestured. I walked over to her
and she handed me a copy of the book I have been writing
for the last 8 year. My 1200 single space overweight
eight year old mediation on the human condition phynchonian
progeny titled "Yellow Monkey Bars and Unbidden erections:
A failed Campaign."
As I looked inside my own book I saw the script for which I have been seeking.
I simultaneously grappled the script and ran
up to the front of the stage where the scene I was suppose
to be was being portrayed by a portly actor with a black
beard and glasses.
"You're not ready to perform so I'm taking your role."
The pirate-like actor informed just as I leapt onto the
wooden cleft lip of the stage and pushed the actor who was replacing
me aside. Just as I began to emphatically recite my roll
I found myself being baptized in a swath of regal burgundy
flavored stage curtains--the lower limbs of my anatomy
folding under my torso in a yogi-like posture
as my entire body began to spin around
and I watched through the silhouette of the stage
curtains as the bearded actor deemed to replace me
took my place and the show invariably
went on without me.
****
Later that morning I found myself stumbling through the arid
pause looking for a refuge where I could dry out (drinking too much)
I then found myself in front of this building, only it was dream like and maybe a thousand times
larger.
As I went inside I was the man dressed in all white seated on a thrown and the bald headed man was next to him, it was the same scene I experience and eternally blogged about two months ago, The out of body mediation where I find myself in reverence in a throne room telling an escort of God that I cannot bow before him alone if the person I feel one with at all times is not saddled next to me, bowing, worshiping, smiling in spiritual deference as well.
As I bowed in front of the Master he told me very acutely to, "Build a temple of Unity and of Light." When I told him that I was not an architect he told me very simply to, "Try."
I then was escorted to a vector of the shrine where I could "dry out" and put my decadent destructive drinking days behind me.
As I was drying out I had a dream where for the first time in two years, I say the Psychic Uncle Mike. I ran up with joy and elation to give him a hug and to thank him for teaching me about the faith, but he brushed me aside and rather sternly responded to the dimensions of my arms by uttering a sole monosyllabic curse:
"SIT." Was all he said to me in a gruff voice.
Later on that morning (it's the weekend so I dream late) I was in a semi-truck with my best friend Hale. The truck was huge and the traffic was intense and the day was bleak early depressing December weather sans the Christmas garland and it was snowing. My friend Hale offered to take over at the helm of the wheel but I insisted on driving, even though traffic was stagnant and our cargo was precious. We then stopped to help a fellow trucker who had skidded off the road. We parked our car on the lip of the highway and the fellow trucker began to cry. He was clean gut, bran shoulders and clad in flannel. He said it was a hard life and he cried even more when he talked about his young daughter who he never got a chance to see anymore. I thought about the young child from my dream a day before who had whispered "psssssst's" and showed me where my script was located. Hale and I then hooked the truck drivers semi up to our own vehicle and got him out of the ditch he was stuck in.
Later in the dream our cargo came across a tight tunnel. It was small and both Hale and myself thought that there was no way we could ever get through. Eventually, through the taxing darkness, we persisted and found ourselves at the other end, our vessel completely unscathed.
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