July 2003 Dreams

7-3-2003

(1) I'm riding on a bus heading south on Telegraph Avenue in Oakland. I look across the aisle – that's Ian McKellen sitting across from me! I look away, not wanting to stare.

More people get on the bus; it's crowded. McKellen moves to make room for someone ... and sits down again, next to me. He's looking at the receipt for something he's purchased – it's from the Other Change of Hobbit bookstore. I decide to start a conversation, but choose not to play the "my girlfirend used to be one of the owners" card. I say, "I should think that you'd be sick unto death of that hobbit stuff by now." He glares at me. "I will never get sick of 'that hobbit stuff'!" he says to me.

The scene shifts. We are now in a crowded restaurant/night club that has a floor show. The entertainment is awful.

It's clear to me that McKellen would like to pick me up. I don't want to go along with it, because I feel that, being thoroughly straight, I would be unable to
perform. But I think there's nothing I can say that won't encourage him.

(2) I'm walking past a home with a yard and no fence. A dog, a brown pit bull, runs up to me and starts barking fiercely. He goes no further than the edge of the yard, though. I observe that the dog seems to be well-trained, and I keep walking.

The dog suddenly lunges past the edge of the lawn, towards me. "Bad dog!" I yell, and hit it with my fists. There's an old stick nearby; I pick it up and start beating the dog with it. "Bad dog!" Whack! "Bad dog!" Whack! "Bad dog!" Whack! ...

7-5-2003:

Last night's dreams included a string of dreams taking place at a major science fiction convention – a worldcon, I thought. I had said something forceful and dramatic in some context – perhaps a fanzine, perhaps my weblog, perhaps on a panel – and was feeling defensive about it, ashamed that I may have hurt people's feelings.

But my remarks had attracted the attention of a group of flashy young turks – cyberpunk-types – and they were flattering me, treating me like one of them, one of the "in" crowd.

There was a bunch of dream hugger-mugger. Some of it developed into finding out that a number of the young-turk women writers were attracted to me. Lots of flirting, with an undertone of anxiety on my part (I didn't deserve it, my writing – or whatever – was troublesome, et cetera). At one point I observed that the flirtaceous kisses with new women were more exciting than kisses from old familiar lovers, but the excitement was somehow illusory.

[I woke up at least halfway, and turned over to see Debbie's sleeping face – which seemed younger and smoother to me than it usually does. I felt strongly that the lasting love I have for her was a better deal than the fun flirts I had been dreaming about. Back to sleep and moreof the same dreams....]

Here are Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman. Ellen tells me in this helpful, just-between-friends way that she really likes my long beard, but it would look lots better if I had it trimmed.