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Tuesday, March 09, 2004 Hoping my already miminal credibility isn't about to go right out the window.... Got to bed late last night, woke up earlier than I would have preferred. Feeling tired, a bit disoriented at finding myself here, alone in bed. Wanting to turn over, sink immediately back into sleep. And no wonder -- all night long my dream self went from one wild adventure to another, climaxing during the early hours in a lengthy, emotional, vivid romance with a lovely English woman I met during my pre-Christmas swing through the U.K. [see entry of December 16, 2003], the dream ultimately giving way to lovemaking: intense, visceral, almost hypnotic. I surfaced from that, opening my eyes to discover myself back in the bedroom of my austere Madrid flat. A strange, jolting transition. Remained stubbornly under the covers for a while, drifting, finally dragged myself to my feet, got the day underway. Since finishing up the recent entries re: the jaunt to Casablanca, I have produced no writing. Not a state I'm wild about, that of zero production, but it is sometimes how things go. And there generally seems to be a reason for it, the reason usually being: if I crank out stuff without having anything of substance to say, the product generally blows. Not to put too fine a point on it. But here I am, producing something I hope will have at least trace elements of substance and no more than a nose-wrinkling whiff of purplish prose. This morning: once I'd pulled myself together, scraped away the morning's crop of facial hair, etc., I wandered out to pick up groceries, a morning paper, a cup of espresso, a croissant. Thinking about last night's nonstop activity, about the long, affecting dreamtime romantic encounter that wound it all up. I've been in regular contact with the woman in question, when I got home I sent an email telling her briefly about the dream, on impulse, hoping I wasn't doing something wildly inappropriate. Wondering, as soon as I'd sent it, if I should send another excusing it, apologizing, saying 'just ignore me!' Did none of that. Just waited. Two, three hours later, an email shows up from England, saying she'd had a dream early this morning in which she found herself in my house in Vermont. In the kitchen, sunlight streaming in while she rolled out pastry dough. Everything in bright, vivid colors. And she heard me say, "Hi, sweetie!", coming up behind her, kissing her neck. After which she woke up, finding herself in her bed, alone, disoriented. I read that, with no idea what to think, everything feeling slightly unreal. When I finally looked up, I found the hands on the living room clock had leaped forward, the day slipping by at startling, unruly velocity. (A question: when did I take up residence in a New-Age Harlequin novel?) As unlikely as it may sound, this is not the first time I've experienced the simultaneous-dream thing. It's happened twice before, both times during my college years -- a messy period of time I consider myself lucky to have survived -- both times with women I'd been involved with. One occasion intense, the other poignant, neither leaving me anywhere near as affected as I feel right now, but real damn interesting, both of them. Worth laying out here. [this piece in progress] ***************** A giant of what began as a maverick wing of contemporary theater has cashed in his chips. Few people who happen across this journal know that I spent most of the years of my so-called adult life working in theater -- sometimes making a living at it, often not; often acting, sometimes (more with passing years) writing. Writing and acting in your own stuff is a fine way to get out of the audition grind. I became aware of Spalding Gray in the early 80s, his work had an immediate impact on me. His focus, his intensity, his sense of humor and vulnerability, the way he developed of expressing his ongoing fascination with and fear of life, turning it into something pointed, remarkable, ground-breaking -- a manner of working that turned his limitations and weaknesses into strengths, to the point that he more or less single-handedly transformed a marginal performance form into something now commonplace. I saw him perform many times in Boston and Cambridge during the 80s and 90s. I watched his films, read his novel, devoured the transcripts of his monologues over and over and over. His influence on my writing could not have been more pervasive, initially impelling me to scribble and perform autobiographical monologues, with time becoming far subtler (fortunately for everyone) -- becoming a point of light to which I periodically referred in the ongoing development of what some misguided arty types might call my voice. (So, yes, you should feel free to blame him to whatever degree you feel appropriate.) Should you ever stumble across a copy of Swimming to Cambodia, his best known monologue, directed by Jonathan Demme (available on video and DVD) or Terrors of Pleasure (an hour-long version available on video (hard to find) and DVD (easier to locate), the full-length version available on audiotape), grab 'em. Unbelievably funny, complex enough to stand up to repeated viewings. rws 10:12 AM [+] |