10:24 a.m. So last night it was Bebe Neuwirth. I just woke up. Still a little foggy. Tossed out of a dream so abruptly I feel as if I've been thrown from a moving car. Differences of momentum. I'll get down to speed in a few minutes. Lemme gimme coffee.
She had just gotten married. The guests were milling and mumbling. The food was running out and all you could see on the plates were the flattened broken-veined lettuce that they'd used for decoration. A few stray toothpicks with their tiny fiesta pompoms bedraggled. The black orb of an olive rolling back and forth in the pit of the cut-glass bowl.
Why am I having all these dreams of dark-haired snappish-tongue celebs getting married? As in the Rhea Perlman dream, there was, once again, messy hair and a veil. Something about a disappointed mother in the background, ruined candlelight peau-d'ange, ground-out but-but-buts.
I know all about the dinner-party nightmare: I won't have enough; they'll find out. They'll either go away mad or riot and wreck the place. Who are they?
And who invited them to my dreamy parties? Oh yeah. I remember. Hi! How are you? So glad you could stop by. Hope there's something here you like. Hope I look all right. Hope I made enough. Hope you're not allergic or vindictive or disgruntled. Hope you come back. Tell all your friends. What? You ask. What am I serving up?
Oh, this little dream.
The other night we were invited to a screening of a new movie, a short film. There was a nice reception before the movie began, with food and drink and the happy bubbling expectant crowd poking and prodding at the various condiments with small pointed parries and thrusts. All very civilized and you know -- nice.
One can only imagine how the film's director, writer, and producer felt, but you could observe. Or, you could ask her yourself -- because there was Sharon, the Sharon we know from the office, moving through the crowd, shaking hands and generally being -- Sharon.
I know her as a regular person working a regular job in the daytime. Sure she's high-strung and nervous and she seems a tad overworked. And yes, she's talked a little bit in the past about this film she was working on, but only in the most general ways, and only if you asked.
So the food peters out and the lights dim and the crowd is hushed and ushered into the carpeted and soft-seated screening room and the room goes completely black and there's this motely shaft of searing light and suddenly -- there it is, splattered on the expanse of white silk for everyone to see -- there is your dream playing out before the crowd. Your vision. Your quest. Your dream.
You hope these people are your friends. You hope you weren't still dreaming when you were supposed to be the cold-blooded editor. You hope your dream survived the slashing of the budgets and the abrupt transitions you had to put it through as you raced from your paying job to this, your dreaming job. Once the projector starts and the lights go out, all you can do, really, is hope.
Hey, it worked out fine. We were treated very well that night, indeed. The film on the screen was a lyrical story of a girl who falls in love with a dream. In the movie, she definitely goes all the way. All the way from the most mundane daily routine, days lined up like so many cans of green beans, all the way to the next plane of existence where you remember that you always did know how to fly.
Sharon shared her dream a few nights ago with a roomful of friends and strangers. It's not an easy thing to do, and getting financing and distribution and time on the Avid machine is the least of it.
Getting it made is hard, it's true. Getting it published is quite difficult. But getting a movie or a book or a play made whole and intact -- that's nearly impossible, isn't it? From your mind to mine, from the page to the stage.
Who even manages to remember a transparent dream once the coffee kicks in? Congrats, Sharon. You remembered.
Tomorrow? Have we dreamed it up yet?
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