lucyoncolorado

The past few nights, I've had a few dreams in which famous people appear. Several of them have included musicians that I like plus the inexplicable appearance of Cameron Diaz. I've dreamt about famous people before. Usually I have a dream like this three or four times a year. But for whatever reason, it's happened a lot very recently. I'm not really a fan-boy or a celebrity watcher, and while I enjoy music a lot, I'm not the sort of person to obsess over stars. I guess because it's happened a few times and I've written it down here in my journal, it is on my mind more than usual and so I keep having these dreams. Sort of like a feedback loop. Anyway, I'm explaining that because I dreamt about Jimi Hendrix and about Bob Dylan again last night, and it's a little embarrassing that I keep having celebrities in my dreams. I thought about not recording it here since I'm disappointed in my apparent recent lack of imagination, but that wouldn't be honest, so here it is.


In which I help an elderly Bob Dylan navigate an airport and he asks me to dinner...


I'm at the airport in Austin. An elderly man in a cowboy hat gets off the plane. He appears to be about 90 and he walks with a cane. He is dragging a large suitcase but one of its wheels has broken and he is having difficulty balancing the luggage and his cane. I ask him if I can assist him and he gladly hands over his suitcase. I realize right away that it's a future Bob Dylan.

I help him to the escalator and he asks me about the local music scene. I tell him about a few gigs in town that I know of, but none of it interests him so I start suggesting restaurants instead. He's excited about the mole at Curra's. On our way to the bus stop, we must walk through a kindergarten classroom. The teacher makes us all line up at the door and demands that we wait with "bubbles and duck tails" which is teacher talk for putting air in your mouth and keeping it quiet and for crossing your hands behind your back. I struggle with pulling Bob Dylan's luggage while walking with my hands behind my back.

In the classroom, the kiddos sit at their tables as if they are immigration officials. They require us to color a picture before we can pass. They are impressed with my pencil shading and with Bob Dylan's color scheme. We tack our pictures on their blackboard and walk to the backdoor which exits at the bus stop. Just as we are about to exit, the teacher stops us and asks, "Aren't you Bob Dylan?" He looks embarrassed. I have not acknowledged that I recognize him yet. I jump in and answer, "Don't be silly. This is an old man who happened to sit next to me on the plane, that's all." The teacher and I laugh at how silly it'd be if Bob Dylan was flying coach.

Outside, Bob Dylan gives me his phone number and asks me if I'd like to come to dinner that night. I accept the invitation and feel really cool. But once I get home, I read on the news that a stalker is harassing him and that the authorities are looking for a woman who helped him carry his luggage at the airport. It turns out that the police think that I must have given the stalker his phone number in exchange for some money. I present myself at the police station and explain that I never gave his phone number out to anyone. They believe me, but it takes a few hours and I'm tired afterwards. I decide not to go to the dinner or to call Bob Dylan himself to explain. I figure the best thing to do is just to let it all go. Besides, I'm really tired of driving after flying and then dealing with the police, and I just want to get home.


In which I warn Jimi Hendrix about drugs...


I’m picking cotton and putting what I collect in the apron of my dress. I’m wearing pioneer clothes, including a bonnet and lace-up boots. It’s hot, and I look at the marigolds shining on the roof of my mud house. I wonder if cotton grows on the Great Plains and then realize that I’m in the past. I’ve time-traveled again, I think to myself, but I do not realize that I’m also dreaming. I drop the cotton and walk towards the mud house, looking for the time machine. I find a post hole in the ground before the house, make a wish, and jump in. I decide to attend the Monterrey Pop Festival.

I don’t remember seeing the show. Instead, the dream picks up after the concert. I’m standing in front of the stage, sweaty from dancing all night, when another time traveler approaches me. He asks if I’d like to go backstage with him. I agree, and am delighted to discover that he is buddies with Jimi Hendrix. We all go to a diner afterwards for waffles and coffee. Jimi Hendrix is smoking a lot. He’s wearing a purple feather boa and he tells me he likes my pioneer bonnet. I tell him that I’m a time traveler and that I got so interested in the concert that I did not have time to look for time-appropriate clothes. I then warn him to moderate his drug use.

He laughs and says, “There’s always three or four people at my concerts who claim to be time travelers, and they’re always telling me that.” Everyone at the table laughs.