Dream 20030911, 7:10 AM:
[notes: we had a blackout at my office yesterday, which I think contributed the lights-off imagery. The Chorale is a gay men’s chorus that has an office in our building, and I usually go to their concerts, although I don’t sing with them and never have. They were here for rehearsal yesterday when we were having the power outage. They always do a sign language number with the whole chorus at Christmas, and they always have a sign interpreter during all their concerts.]
I’m with the Chorale, in a large dark room that reminds me of a craft store like Hobby Lobby. There are no customers or staff, and all the lights are off. At first, I am trying to get my candle to light – it is a four-wicked candle, and it’s in a paper case that’s kind of like a paper milk carton cut off about four inches from the bottom, but much more complicated – it reminds me of one of those paper “fortune teller” origami things, except it’s cup-side-up. I have one of the long stick lighters, and I keep trying to get it lit, but having all kinds of trouble – first the flame blows out, then it won’t light, then the wick gets submerged. Someone is trying to help me with it, holding the lighter for me, but we just can’t get it to work. Finally, I look at the Chorale group, and there is a big fire on the risers – apparently somebody dropped their candle and it burned a big spot. Tim explains that we have to do it without the candles now, because of the danger of fire.
I get up on the risers, and I have an image of myself in a white shirt standing at the center of the top row of risers; the rest of the Chorale is all dressed in dark blue or black, and it seems like there’s a light shining on me. We sing a number, and it doesn’t seem like I’m doing a solo or anything, but there’s a focus on me. When we are done, I go into a bathroom adjacent to the big room we’re in, and brush my teeth – but with a thin liquid hand soap, which tastes awful. Tim is standing there when I get out, and explains something about how well the song went, and that it’s important for me to keep up the signing *(like sign language for the deaf) while I’m singing, that it makes a good effect during the song.
Then, the room has shifted some. It still looks like a big art supplies store, but now there’s a figure drawing group here. I am flying around the room languidly, just sort of wandering around about ten feet off the floor. The model for the drawing group, an over-tanned body builder, is talking to the instructor, who is wearing a white lab coat and glasses. She says something about needing to be the center of attention, but I’m not sure if she’s talking about me, or the body builder.
Then, I’m outdoors at a Renaissance Festival, still flying around. I fly up to a small two-story building, one of the typical shops, and there are a bunch of balloons flying in the air outside of it. Some are very small, the size of pears, and others are bigger, the size of footballs. Most of them are yellow, although some are yellow and black checkered. There are a bunch of them attached to a net-like affair on the outside of the building. I hold one of the balloons, enjoying the feel as the wind tugs on the string. A woman comes out of the building, and says hello. I ask her if she knows how to fly; she replies that she does, she knows all about the ropes and wires. I realize that she is talking about flying in stagecraft, and she thinks that I’m hanging suspended from the net above. I let go of the balloon, which flies upward, and explain, “These aren’t holding me up.” She seems baffled, but not amazed.
I fly onward, still just gently zipping around about eight or ten feet off the ground. I pause for a while, and watch a little remote-controlled airplane flying through the air; I point my finger at it, and control it through lazy turns and then a series of loop-the-loops, before growing bored with it and moving on. I see Grandmother and Greg in the crowd; Greg has his shirt off, and is pushing a stroller with a baby. I go toward them, and talk with them for a while. We are standing under a small pole pavilion with a thatched roof, and there is a man here who wants to sword-fight; he hands me a sword, and we spar a little. At one point, he has ended up on top of the pavilion (did I push him up there?) and crashes through it trying to attack. It seems totally non-threatening, although they are big steel broadswords.