beautiful, funny, sad & true

The other night I had a myriad of interesting dreams, which were good enough to share despite the fact that I can’t remember their entire scenarios.  The first few flowed together and were related, even though I woke up between them.

* * * * *

I’m driving in a really old car that I’ve just purchased, which is a 1960 Pontiac Trans Am.  There’s no such thing in real life; in fact, it looked like this (but more run down). . .

. . .which is a 1961 Cadillac Coupe DeVille.  How did I know what it was?  Because A) it was a dream, and sometimes you just know these things, and B) on the floor of the passenger side, embedded in the salmon-colored carpet, was a small black metal plate embossed with the words ‘Trans Am’, which looked a lot like those miniature license plates that kids put on their bicycles.

So I’m driving around in this gigantic car, and I decide to take a road trip to Seattle to test the thing out.  I leave Portland and drive up the freeway for a while, getting used to the car all the way.  I’m enjoying the novelty and comfort of it, but I keep ruminating on things, like the fact that it’s easily twice as big as anything I’ve ever driven before, and that it can only go for a few miles on a gallon of gasoline.  The dream’s location changes, and I find myself driving a few miles south of Seattle, near the airport, where the steampunk convention took place.  I recognize the hotels and streets and everything, but this time I notice that there’s a new Elliott Smith museum, so I decide to turn into the parking lot and check it out.  It takes me a while to park the behemoth, and I opt for a spot near the far end of the parking lot. I close the door and survey the car, making sure that everything seems to be working correctly.  Everything does, so I walk into the museum.

I don’t see anything about Elliott Smith, but I do see lots of antique clothing and miscellaneous other things.  I see a section of mens’ overcoats, and I’m intrigued by a blue one that looks like it was from the early 1920’s, which I try on.  It fits me perfectly, but I decide not to buy it since I don’t know if this trip will cause my car to need any repairs.  I leave the museum and walk back to the car.

The dream’s location changes again, and I’m now driving on a bridge between downtown Seattle and a very small, rustic island a short distance offshore in Puget Sound.  (For those of you readers who live elsewhere in the world, this is not a place that exists in real life.)  Dad and Brother are renting a house for the weekend, so that the three of us can have a relaxing getaway together.  (For those of you readers who live elsewhere in the world, this is not a thing that happens in real life.)  I get to the end of the bridge and see a yellow road sign with divergent arrows that recommends drivers stay at twenty miles per hour.  The sign is at the intersection, though, so I have to stomp on the brakes, skid, and back up in order to make the turn.  Clearly, this is a place that doesn’t get many visitors, despite its proximity to Seattle.

I make the sharp left turn onto the narrow road that travels the perimeter of the island (in fact, it’s the island’s only road) and pull into the driveway of a somewhat dilapidated barn next to a farmhouse.  I park the car inside the barn, and Dad and Brother walk out of the house to greet me.  They look at the car and ask me how the trip went.  “Well,” I tell them, “if I’d known what this little island was like, I’d have brought my motorcycle instead, and done a bit of exploring.”  I also have a vintage motorcycle, and since my so-called Trans Am is too huge for the road on this island, I’m really wishing I had the alternative.  We walk into the farmhouse and they tell me that dinner – an egg dish of some sort, similar to a Benedict – is ready to be served.

* * * * *

The second dream is much shorter.  I’m a ghost hunter, and I’m walking in a hall and a downward staircase in a medieval castle in Germany.  I’m wearing a bodysuit that makes me invisible, and I’m also wearing goggles that allow me to track ghosts in the castle, if there are any.  The goggles give a gray, pixellated view of my surroundings, and if a ghost is present, the word ‘ID’ appears on the screen.  (I should probably clarify that ‘ID’ refers to identification, not the part of the brain.)  I’m also wearing headphones that allow me to hear what the ghosts say, should they wish to communicate with me.  As I turn and walk down the curved staircase, a flurry of ID’s appears on the screen.  There is a huge group of ghosts coming up the stairs toward me.  I stop walking and stand motionless, a few steps from the top.

“I can see you,” I say.

A voice speaks in my headphones.  “No. . .you can’t.  That’s ridiculous.”

A ghost appears in front of me; a tall young guy in his mid-twenties, dressed in the style of a punk rocker.  His name is emblazoned on the front of his shirt.

“Yes, I can. . .Derek?”

He is visibly taken aback.  I tell him I can show him who I am, too, and at this moment I realize that in this dream I am female.  I can control the invisibility suit to reveal as much or as little of myself as I choose, so I start with my arms.  I reveal my right arm first, and then my left, which are very skinny and appear in the air before him.  I then reveal my face and head to him, and I shake my long blond hair free.  He seems to trust me, and he gives a signal to the other ghosts in the stairway behind him to materialize, which they do.  There are more than I can possibly count, but this doesn’t make me uncomfortable or frightened at all.

* * * * *

There, you see?  Well worth sharing, even though there was much more to these dreams than I’m able to recall.  That was a good night.  As usual, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that tonight will be just as eventful.

Wow, I just realized that it’s been weeks since I’ve written anything.  It’s been a crazy month, full of trips to Seattle, and gigs, and recording, plus a healthy dose of holiday cheer (um. . .yeah) in addition to all the usual Everyday Life stuff, which hasn’t left me feeling very compelled to write lately.  I’m essentially doing you a favor, by sparing you the minutiae of all of that.

Money has been a bit tight, after a flurry of gigs with little or no pay.  That’s frustrating, because while I love all the people I play with, it’s really hard to keep a high level of motivation when you put your heart and soul (and time, and energy, and gas, and expensive musical instruments) into something and you’re compensated with gratitude. . .which is great, don’t get me wrong, but gratitude doesn’t pay the bills.

About three months ago, I managed to scratch both of my eyes within a week of each other.  That was a pretty miserable couple of weeks.  Why am I bringing that up now?  Because a couple of nights ago, I scratched my right eye again.  Driving to rehearsal that evening, in rush hour traffic, through the rain and fog, didn’t do much to improve the situation, either.  Last night’s unpaid gig was really great, and really fun, but also really painful, and I had to reschedule tonight’s dinner plans for Sunday night instead.

I feel like I’m being a CrankyPants lately, instead of my usually indomitable self.  I did have a bunch of excellent dreams last night, however, which were a saving grace after my scratched eye kept me awake for much of the night.  I’ll have to include them here, once I decide how to share them.

I have two funny things to report.  The first is that last night, after the gig, I was loading my instruments to the car in a torrential downpour, which is still dumping on OurFairCity as I’m writing this.  A homeless guy walked up with a small spray bottle and offered to wash my window.  “I’ll do a real good job,” he said.  I was unable to keep from chuckling a little as I gestured to the sheets of rain.  “I’d say it’s getting taken care of already.”

The second thing is someone I overheard when I was at the grocery store this afternoon, buying a new headlight bulb for my car.  (On every other car I’ve had, changing headlight bulbs has been a breeze, but on my Honda, it’s a gigantic pain in the ass. . .but I digress.)  This person was talking into her cell phone, and I can only imagine the other end of the conversation.  I’ll leave you with this:

“Remember that time I karate-kicked you in the face?  On accident?”

This past weekend I did something for the first time; I attended SteamCon, the steampunk convention in Seattle.  I had only an inkling of an idea what to expect, but I have to tell you that it was amazing.

I found out about it when PolishCellist (her name is unusual and therefore requires a pseudonym for blogging purposes), with whom I play accordion, was asked to perform there.  I’m pretty easily put off by large crowds, but I’m familiar enough with the ideas of steampunk (I have a handful of friends who are super into it), and I’m definitely familiar with the type of circus and cabaret culture with which it shares many similarities and ideologies, so it sounded like it would be, at the very least, an interesting experience.  Plus, we had free all-weekend passes.

I’m interested enough in anime and cabaret and stuff that I knew the convention would be full of more than just teenagers dressed like comic book characters, but I have to admit that the wide range of ages was a surprise to me.  Young and old alike roamed the halls and congregated in the lounges and rooms, and the garden area by the pool.  There were whole families, each clearly interested in different aspects of the culture.  If you’re not familiar at all with steampunk, look it up it stems from the idea that the Victorian Age was the height of creativity, and culture, and technology.  There are a myriad of sub-genres within that simple idea, though.  There are people who simply like to dress in Victorian style, and there are people who are fascinated by the elaborate gadgets that were created before electricity was in common usage.  There are people who are interested in cabaret music, and people who are interested in the popular entertainment of the time, such as burlesque and circus acts.  There are people who build weapons using this antiquated technology, and there are people who build elaborate mechanical body parts for themselves.  There are people who are into early flying machines.  There are people who are inspired by the Gothic and vampire novels of the time.  You can see how there’s plenty of room for interpretation, and all can fit under the umbrella of steampunk, albeit some more naturally than others.

The best thing about a convention like that is the people-watching.  Just about everyone was dressed stunningly.  It was interesting to see the lengths to which people would or wouldn’t go.  One girl wore a beautiful blue ‘peacock’ dress, and one guy simply wore a polo shirt and jeans with his aviator goggles.  One guy doctored up an electric guitar, and a husband-and-wife team (who led one of the panel discussions) arrived with an amazing brass electro-mechanical dog that could actually roll under its own power and lift its head, and probably did various other tricks as well.  Its eyes were lit up in blue.

There was an art room, which did double duty as a silent auction.  There were pictures and sculptures, as well as the requisite gadgetry.  The antique bicycles modified into antique motorcycles were particularly well done, I thought, and as a typewriter enthusiast, I love the fact that people have figured out ways to modify them with USB connections, so they can be used with their more modern counterparts.

I feel sorry for the ‘regular’ people who just happened to be staying in those two hotels at the time this was all going on.  It was hilarious to watch and overhear people on their cell phones trying to describe what they were witnessing.  “It’s some sort of convention,” they would say, “or maybe a fashion show. . .”

All I can say is that it was a total blast, and I’m hooked.  I’m into old music, and antiquated technology, and I do love to dress nice.  My usual attire owes more to the 1970’s than to the 1870’s, but there are enough cool places in town (not to mention garage sales) that it wouldn’t be too hard to find clothes.  It would be nice to go to a different meet-up at a turn-of-the-century hotel or club or something, rather than the ultra-modern hotels.  Not that there’s anything wrong with those hotels; it should be noted that they did a tremendous job of hosting the enormous convention.

I think it would be funny and awesome to buy a cheap cello and doctor it up.  I would never do that to the cello I have, but it would be a great experiment on a different instrument.  Maybe a violin would be better, since it’d be a lot cheaper, not to mention easier to carry around as a prop.  Only problem is, I don’t know how to play violin, and I know I’d get tired of constantly having to refuse people when they’d want me to do something with it.  Cello for the win (I accidentally typed ‘wine’ just now), as The Kids Today would say.

Why don’t I have any pictures in this entry, I can feel you asking, after gushing about how amazing and beautiful everything was?  Because I couldn’t find my camera when I was packing.  After I got home, it turned up in the glove compartment of my car, buried under CD’s, where I had left it the other day.  I wanted to punch myself in the face when I saw that it was in the car with me the entire time, and I didn’t even know it.  Curses!

As a little aside, I have to confess that after dressing quasi-Victorian for the weekend, it was really nice to slip into a comfortable sweater and jeans today.

P.S. – If you should ever find yourself passing through the tiny town of Nisqually, Washington (an hour or so south of Seattle), you owe it to yourself to stop in at Norma’s restaurant, for a great time and an amazing burger.  I don’t eat very many burgers, let alone recommend them, so that ought to be a pretty good impetus.  While we’re on the subject, Violetta and The Hop and Vine here in Portland have excellent burgers as well.   Seek ’em out.

P.P.S. – I hate to end this entry talking about burgers, even really delicious ones, so I thought it would be funny to tack on this completely unnecessary paragraph.  I stand by my decision to do that, even though it doesn’t add anything to the blog.

P.P.P.S. – There is no third post script.  Please move along.

P.P.P.P.S. – There’s also not a fourth one.  Sorry.

P.P.P.P.P.S. – There IS, however, a fifth post script, and this is it.  There will not be a sixth, unless I decide to add one later.  Who knows, maybe I will.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. – Yup, looks like I did add a sixth one.  Okay, now I’m really done.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. – Or AM I?

[Edit:  P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. – Here and here are some great pictures (including some of the dog!), many of which are from the fashion show on Saturday, which required a separate $50 ticket to attend.  Also, PolishCellist is in a couple of those pictures.  HINT:  She is without her cello.]

My dream life, in case you haven’t noticed, has been on overdrive lately.  Practically every night I’ve had at least two vivid ones; some of which are worth sharing, others are not.  This morning’s dream was particularly vivid and beautiful, and here it is.

* * * * *

I’m walking along a street near the waterfront here in Portland (on the east side of the river, just south of the Fremont bridge, if you’re familiar with Our Fair City) and I see a group of people surrounding a gate at the edge of what appears to be a movie set.  Being on the outside, however, means that I can’t see what kind of movie set it is, since the perimeter is built of wood, and it’s all a façade anyway.  I decide to walk over to the gate and the people and investigate the situation.

It’s a beautiful sunny day, but the end of autumn is near, so everyone is bundled up against the wind.  The crowd turns out to be a group of actors and ‘regular’ people who are hoping to be cast as extras in this movie.  It seems that one of the actors is a no-show, and they need one more male character for a speaking part.  One of the production assistants sees me and assumes that I’m one of the group of people hoping to be an extra.  She points at me and says, “You, there, it’s your lucky day!  Come with me.”  She turns and walks briskly toward the middle of the set.  A few people nearby usher me through the crowd and guide me through the gate.  I have a second to glance at my surroundings while I’m catching up to the assistant, and I notice that the set is built with a medieval theme.  There is a town to my left, in the direction that we’re walking, and on the right is a large, grassy hill area that slopes down toward the river.   One corner is raised, to accommodate a small crowd or chorus of singers, and the other corner is filled with a tall hut and a group of palm trees, surrounded by high grass and colorful plants.  I catch up to the assistant, and she walks me down to the water’s edge, where a large boat is waiting.  We walk across a thick wooden plank and climb aboard.

The boat, too, is part of the set.  It’s built in a very stylized, medieval way, with white walls and dark wooden trim.  This is where the actors and directors congregate when they aren’t busy, or when they’re waiting for their scene, or when they’re taking a break.  This is also where the food service is located, so everyone has something food-related in their hands.  “Congratulations,” the assistant tells me.  “This is a great opportunity, and you’ll have fun.  We’ll need to fit you with a costume, so I’ll need you to change out of your clothes.  They’ll be safe in here,” meaning the room we’re in, “and you can help yourself to some food.  I think you’ll find that we have a little bit of everything.”

I thank her and start to take off my many layers of clothing.  It’s cold and windy outside, so I’m wearing a wool trench coat over my gray suit jacket and a black long-sleeved T-shirt.  I remove all that stuff, followed by my jeans, until I’m standing in my underwear.  An older lady wearing a track suit appears at my side with a large blue blanket, which she hands to me.  I wrap it around myself.  “You’re clearly a professional,” I tell her.  “You knew to bring an extra set of clothes.”

“It’s true, I’ve done this before,” she says, smiling.  We become instant friends.  She makes it her mission, there and then, to look after me and to always know where I am, even if I don’t necessarily know.  We walk over to the craft table and survey the food situation.  There is raw fruit and fruit salad, some various creations that look almost (but not quite) like pizza, different types of cake, cookies, juices, and the requisite bottles of water are everywhere.  My new friend and I sit down at a long table by the window, next to two young women.  We make the usual chit-chat, and then the girl sitting next to me makes a face and drops her food onto her plate.  “This isn’t vegan, there’s sausage on it,” she says disparagingly.  “I was told specifically that these were vegan.”

“I know,” the girl across the table agrees.  “I just got a piece of steak in mine.”  They both visibly slump in their seats.

I say to the young woman next to me, “I’ll give that a try.  I’d hate for it to go to waste.  What is it?”

“You want an Eiro?” she replies, pronouncing it almost like ‘aero’.

“What’s an Eiro?”  I ask.

“Kind of like a pizza with a really thin crust, but it’s this company’s own creation.  They have a million different varieties, like crepes; sweet and savory.”

“Sounds good,” I say.  “What’s on this one?”

She points at each of the ingredients as she finds one.  “Sausage. . .peppers. . .cheese, obviously. . .and a bunch of vegetables.”

“Yum,” I say, and she hands me the plate.  I take a bite and turn to look out the window.  There is an action scene being filmed on the river with a lot of fast-moving boats and a battle scene.  Our boat seems to have changed location, since we’re now a mile or so upriver, between the Morrison and Burnside bridges (again, if you’re familiar with Portland).  Our boat is parked in the corner of the set, and boats are zooming all around us, with old-fashioned guns being fired, and people jumping from boat to boat.  The camera boat is moving slowly between our boat and the action, so we’re able to see approximately what they’re filming.  Our boat starts to move downstream on a sort of wooden track.  I overhear someone explaining to a group of extras that the upper deck of our boat is used for cameras as well, and that lots of things do double duty in order to keep costs down.

From where we’re sitting, we have an excellent view of everything.  I sit and watch the action, and hear a sudden bang as a boat sporting a vertical plywood structure slams into the side of the Burnside bridge, and the plywood structure falls into the water.  Nothing else is damaged, and no one is hurt.  We can see the agitated director on his boat, flailing his arms and yelling to one of his assistants that they should have known how high the water level is, because this is Portland in the winter, and it rains more, and this had better not happen again or else.

The director decides to take that entire shot once again, so all the boats have to turn around and go back to their original positions in the shot.  Coming back, our boat is in such a position that we can see the wooden track we’re traveling in.  My new woman friend says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this before.”

“It’s pretty brilliant,” I tell her, “like having a dolly track in the water.  It’s anchored to the shore instead of to the river bottom.  We can go as fast as we want, up or down the river, and we always line up in exactly the same way.”

We wait until our boat is parked in its position for the shot, then we turn back to our food.  I take two more bites of my Eiro, and I’m chewing when the production assistant appears.  She motions for me to come to where she is, and says, “Okay, it’s time for you.”  I stand up, adjust the blue blanket that I’m wrapped in, and walk over to join her.

She takes me back across the plank, through the small ‘town’ area, and across to the top of the grassy hill, overlooking the hut and the chorus area.  By now, this part of the set is buzzing with activity.  The shot that’s being filmed is a large-scale musical number, and some small speakers rise out of the grass to pipe in music, so that the characters can sing and dance along to the actual soundtrack.  The characters are like characters from a childrens’ book, about eight feet tall, with oversized heads and bodies, and many of them with exaggerated buck teeth.  There is indeed a chorus of singers in the corner, and in the hut are the most important characters (and the tallest, at almost ten feet); the king and queen of the tribe.

It’s absolutely enchanting to watch, and all the human-character actors and extras are sitting on the hillside looking down and watching the proceedings.  My old woman friend and I look for a spot on the synthetic grass, which is very uncomfortable and slippery.  There are small indented areas that are designed for people to sit in, but they’re too small, and the hill is too steep, so people are having difficulty getting comfortable.  The two of us sit along the edge of the set, overlooking the town area, next to a thick wooden rail.

She says, “You should have asked for a carry-out plate.  You hardly got to eat any of your food.”

“I know,” I say.  “I guess I’ll have to grab some later, if I get the chance.”

She looks around a little, sees a group of friends waving at her, and excuses herself to walk over and say hello to them.  I sit and watch the action for a while, and then I hear a few people saying my name quietly.  I turn to see someone telling the production assistant where I am, and pointing in my direction.  She sees me and motions for me to come up to where she is.  I stand and start to walk toward her, but I am stopped by a row of people who are lying on their backs in the grass.  “This is not a walk-through,” one lady tells me.  “You’ll have to go around.  It’s too steep here, you might fall if you come this way.”

I stop at her feet, and I feel my own feet start to slip, so I lean forward to stabilize myself.  A couple guys at the end of the row laugh and give me a thumbs-up, motioning me to walk in their direction, slowly.  One of them laughs and says encouragingly, “You’re an actor.  It takes more than a little hill to stop you!”  I walk to the middle aisle and start up the hill.  Someone from a different row calls out to me, “You’d better run.  People get paid for things like this.”  I see a girl in a long, shiny black dress climbing the hill ahead of me, who seems to be heading in the direction I need to go, so I run after her.  As I pass the assistant, she smiles and tells me, “Just go through there and into that building to meet with the director.  You’ll see.”

“Thanks,” I say, jogging after the girl, who disappears at the end of the fake-cobblestone road behind a glass door.  I arrive a few seconds later and poke my head in the door.  She’s already slipped out of her dress and is standing there naked, getting her costume ready.  I turn back around and see a larger, double glass door. open it, and walk into a large, empty room with a fake-stone floor and a large fireplace on one wall.  I’m still wearing only the blue blanket, and I’m starting to feel a bit self-conscious about it.  No one else is in this large room, so I walk toward a little door at the back of the room, and that’s when the director appears.  He’s dark-haired and in his mid-forties, wearing a black dress shirt and slacks, with wire-frame sunglasses.

“Greetings,” he says, and gives me a smile.  I walk over and shake his hand.  He gives me a smile and says, “Looks like you could use a costume.”  He motions to a door I hadn’t noticed before, that’s built into the fireplace wall.  “Come right in here, and we’ll get you started.”  I reach to open the door, and that’s when I wake up.

* * * * *

I could have happily slept for many more hours, living in that dream.  It was absolutely amazing; full of such color and beauty.  Ahhhhh.

Yes, you read that correctly.

That phrase originated in last night’s dream, naturally.  In order for the dream to make any kind of sense at all (which it won’t), you have to know that when my brother and I were teenagers, we used to call each other ‘cork’ as a funny insult.  It was a harmless word that sounded vaguely dirty, so we really felt like we were getting away with something.  It was never meant as a genuine insult, it was always used in a tongue-in-cheek way, as in, “Take three, cork!”

In the dream, Brother and I were our current ages, and we were visiting Dad at his old house along the river in Vancouver.  We were upstairs in his bedroom, and he was talking to us about something, but we weren’t particularly paying attention.   Brother said to me, in a sotto voce ventriloquist way, barely moving his lips, so that Dad wouldn’t overhear, “Don’t forget to get the you-know-what.”  We were standing next to a large bookcase, so I thought Brother was referring to Dad’s collection of risqué books and soft-core pornography.

“I remember,” I whispered, gesturing ever so slightly with my head and eyes toward the bookshelf.

“Don’t forget about the check,” he corrected.

“I didn’t forget about it,” I said, faking anger.

“The check is coming to you,” he said.  Apparently Mom was sending a check for me to give to Dad, and I was supposed to call her to let her know when we arrived, so that she could send it.

“I know it is,” I replied, a bit stronger.  “Shut up. . .Power Cork!”

We took a beat while that ridiculous phrase hung in the air.  I chuckled quietly, to show him that I was just as surprised by what had come flying out of my mouth, and repeated under my breath, “Power Cork.”

We both cracked up, and that’s what woke me up, still laughing in my bed.