I dreamed last night. I dreamed about one dream for every night I haven't dreamed. That's a lot of dreams in case you wanted to know. One millionth of the time I dreamed I was on What Not To Wear with co-hosts Clinton Kelly and Stacy London but Clinton wasn't there only Stacy was and what I call there wasn't NYC but some lovely green place overspread with trees and with a quiet pond a little ways off and in this place we were shopping. Stacy was finding all these clothes for me and I didn't ask where but just tried them on in the dressing room which was a curtained place lit by oil lamps. I tried on some grey pants and Stacy said OK let's see them! so I stepped out and she exclaimed Oh these are fantastic look how they slim you and make you look taller and I gasped But Stacy I can't breathe in them and besides I'm only 115 pounds and already too tall but she didn't even hear me, and simply hummed deliriously running her hand over the fabric, so I changed tactics and hitched up one leg of the pants from behind and said Look one of the legs is shorter than the other! Horrified, she jerked her hand away and backing up said I'll go find you a different one and she turned tail and ran and I frantically packed up my stuff and fled
right into another dream; it was night and a thunderstorm raged outside my house which was full of strange people. I only knew a few of them. It was Bob Dylan in the kitchen at the stand mixer which was on the highest speed beating something he kept adding eggs to while he sang Thunder On The Mountain, and it was Alicia Keys singing it with him. He would sing a verse and she would sing the next and so on but I never actually SAW Alicia Keys because every time I looked around for her she wasn't there and it was me singing. There was someone very sick in the house. We knew we had to go bring a doctor but it seemed no one had brought a car and the only thing we had was the Spirit of St. Louis which was parked under the first maple tree, inexplicably in full moonlight. An old weathered black man had flown her here and told us he was Charles Lindbergh which seemed completely natural at the time. He had since disappeared so the rest of us were deciding who would fly to get the doctor when we heard the plane taking off. Hurrah! we shouted for our brave Charles Lindbergh who was being such a hero, until Charles Lindbergh shouted for us all to keep it down because he was trying to sleep. We stared at each other and realized my 16 year old sister Sophie was the only one missing. But Sophie doesn't know how to drive a plane! I moaned, sick with worry. How to pilot a plane, corrected the black Charles Lindbergh. I think you're a fake, I accused him. I think you're afraid, he said and fell back asleep. Before I could answer, we heard the hum of the plane coming back. Oh thank God she made it! someone shouted and woke the false Lindbergh up again who immediately said ominously That's not my plane. That's not a plane at all. And all the singing stopped again and we quietly listened to that hum getting louder and louder until it was hovering right outside the window and as someone's arm reached to open the blinds I woke up.
I think my dreams are really epic and obviously full of meaningful symbolism.