Dream Update: Bob Dylan, E-Book Typos, and the Last Stand of the Rohirrim

12-12-2003

Debbie and I are hurrying through the halls of a hotel and conference center, hoping we won't be late for the presentation, which we want to see because it features an appearance by Bob Dylan.

We make it to the function room, and discover to our relief that it hasn't begun and there are still seats. It begins, though, and we discover why the event isn't as popular as we anticipated. It turns out that Dylan is completely incoherent: unable to speak, barely able to sing.

12-15-2003

In the dealer's room of an SF convention, I'm looking at a portable electronic book reading device that (for some peculiar reason) has headphones. I unwind the headphone cable wrapped around the device, and look at its screen.

The text shown is of a vintage SF story from the 1930s, part of an anthology edited by Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden. The line of text has, to my surprise, what appear to be typographical errors. I look up at Teresa, who is standing there on the other side of the table. She shrugs.

It happens that there is a copy handy of the pulp magazine with the original version of the story. I open it up and find the relevant page. Yes, the typos are there in the original as well. Whoever transcribed it had transcribed it verbatim, errors and all. I would have thought that Teresa would have fixed it.

12-16-2003

I'm in Seattle, helping to deal with the aftermath of Deb's mother's death, cleaning her apartment and such. One morning I get up and set up to get dressed, sorting through clothes in our suitcase, picking out clean underwear and socks.

The house is nothing at all like the Notkin family house in waking life; instead it is a sprawling ranch house with lots of sliding glass doors, the sort of thing you'd expect to find in a development in Orange County.

Akiva [my nephew] comes into the room and tells me that if I want to check my email, I can use Windows. "That's okay," I answer, "I have my Macintosh with me; I can use it instead."

It's raining, and it's cold. As I look out of the window, the rain turns to snow. The snow comes down quite thickly.

I go upstairs and encounter my friend [Omitted]. She gives me a big, warm hug, and this evolves into a romantic clinch. She is giving me all the signs of wanting to make love to me, e.g., kissing my fingers, caressing my face, etc. I've wanted this for years, but doubt holds me back: Is this really what she wants for her own sake, or is she just doing this to comfort me for the dreadful times I've been going through? Is this right for her? Is it right for me?

The scene shifts, and I am inspecting my new guitar: I identify it at a Fender Stratocaster; but it bears no resemblance to a waking-life Strat. Its body is long and narrow, and it has a pebbled vinyl finish. I note quite proudly that it has a Floyd Rose locking tremolo bridge. I sling its strap around my shoulders and play a couple of chords. I'm ready to rock.

The scene shifts again, and I'm outdoors, in a grassy valley. It's time for me to join up with the Rohirrim, as the armies of the Enemy are approaching. It is sunset. I can see horses scattered among the trees at the edge of the valley, where the slopes of the hills end at the floodplain.

At the head of the valley, the riders of Rohan are gathering. Some are getting wood together to build a bonfire, around which we will make our stand. There is an opening in the rock wall behind us. I go through and find the secret shelter into which we would retreat if things go badly. Here the king is conferring with his advisors.

I encounter a friend, a fat femme dyke in flowing robes, with colored mylar foil strips and patches decorating her face. [She's nobody I know in waking life.] I'm very glad to see her, knowing that she's chosen to join this in our time of desperate need, on the eve of battle. She asks me how I'm doing. I tell her, to my own surprise at its truth, that I'm the happiest I've been in a long time, that the exhilaration and fear of the prospect of battle has supplanted the dark depression of the recent bad times. I'm at my best, I tell her.

Then I ask her: "Are you sure you want to be here? We're playing for keeps tonight, you know." "I'm sure," she answers.

There is a sound outside the shelter: it's the music of electric guitars! I tell everyone else to be quiet, and peer outside.

It isn't the attacking force of the Enemy as some might have feared. Instead, it is a battalion of soldiers, from the English Army. [It was very definitely "English", not "British", in the dream.] I hail them, and their commander identifies them as the such-and-such battallion of the umpteenth regiment, detailed to assist in the defense of Rohan. I reply that I'm an American, detatched to the First Eored of the Mark for liaison duty. "I hope you have plenty of ammunition for those rifles," I tell him. "We're going to need it." The prospects for our defense are now looking substantially brighter.