This week I’ve had two similar dreams. The first was several nights ago. I dreamed that my chorus and I were performing our upcoming concert. A few weeks ago, our conductor told us he wants us to do all the songs from memory, which we’ve never done before, and some people are worried about this. In the dream, we began the concert, from memory. But after several measures, we started to forget things. Our conductor waved his arms and we didn’t know what we were supposed to say or sing. As this was happening, a few late straggling chorus members came onto the stage, and then a few more. It was a disaster. Everything was falling apart.
Two nights ago was the second dream. I dreamed that I was performing as Moonface Martin in a production of Anything Goes, a role I played in high school. Several of my fellow cast members from high school were in this production, too. Except I didn’t know my part very well, and I hadn’t rehearsed. Eventually I found myself sitting at the side of the stage with a few other people as the performance continued. With an audience sitting right there! Completely the wrong thing to do.
I’ve had a series of recurring dreams along these lines for many years. The general narrative is that I’m in a performance of a show, but the show doesn’t start on time, or people forget their lines or aren’t in costume, or the director has to come onto the stage and fix stuff, and things finally devolve into a lethargic chaos. The fourth wall completely breaks down, we’re totally not showing the audience what they’re supposed to be seeing. My emotional response in these dreams is frustration: we’re supposed to be following the script, but nobody is — not just one person screwing up, but everyone — and it’s completely out of my power to fix it.
In some sense, we write our own dreams. So why am I writing my dreams this way?
I have a profound fear of deviating from the script. We’re all born as ourselves, with nothing but our personalities, but as we’re raised, each of us acquires a certain “script” about how we’re supposed to act in the world. I still have a conflicted relationship with the script that was imposed on me in childhood: impress my teachers, win praise, grow up more quickly, act like an adult (instead of like a child), act like a man (instead of like a woman; no more dabbling in music and theater, stop being so close to your mom). A desire to break away from the script and write my own life, and a fear of doing that. A desire/fear of letting myself be me. A desire to not be afraid of my own voice, to not be afraid of success or self-praise. To take the risks I need to take.
To dream the dreams I want to have, and then to act upon them.
Over the years i’ve always noticed how integral fear is to you. Although i totally identify with the notion of imposed scripts onto our psyches, i can’t in terms of the fear factor.
For me, it’s about energy and time, not fear, that limits my life’s work. Sure, i have fears. But, being one who has transcendent values, i find it plays little to no role in how i attempt to realize my goals in life.
rob@egoz.org
BTW, i think the time-stamp on your comments isn’t doing the whole agrarian DST thingy you love so much ;-] My DST compliant clock says it’s 11:59, not 10.
Not to take away from the serious thrust of your post (with which I very much relate), but…YOU WERE MOONFACE?! I was Billy! “Friendship, friendship, just the perfect blendship.”
Sigh. OK, I’m done.
Anything Goes ? Fabulous!
Therefore it only but inspires me to say. . .
“At words poetic, I’m so pathetic
That I always have found it best,
Instead of getting ’em off my chest,
To let ’em rest unexpressed.
I hate parading
My serenading
As I’ll probably miss a bar,
But if this ditty
Is not so pretty,
At least it’ll tell you
How great you are.
You’re the top!
You’re the Colliseum.
You’re the top!
You’re the Louvre Museum.
You’re a melody from a symphony by Strauss.
You’re a Bendel bonnet,
A Shakespeare sonnet,
You’re Mickey Mouse.
You’re the Nile,
You’re the Tower of Pisa,
You’re the smile
On the Mona Lisa.
I’m a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top!
Your words poetic are not pathetic
On the other hand, boy, you shine
And I can feel after every line
A thrill divine
Down my spine.
Now gifted humans like Vincent Youmans
Might think that your song is bad,
But for a person who’s just rehearsin’
Well, I gotta say this my lad:
You’re the top!
You’re Mahatma Gandhi.
You’re the top!
You’re Napoleon brandy.
You’re the purple light of a summer night in Spain,
You’re the National Gall’ry,
You’re Garbo’s sal’ry
You’re cellophane.
You’re sublime,
You’re a turkey dinner,
You’re the time
Of the Derby winner.
I’m a toy balloon that’s fated soon to pop,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a Ritz hot toddy.
You’re the top!
You’re a Brewster body.
You’re the boats the glide on the sleepy Zuider Zee,
You’re a Nathan panning,
You’re Bishop Manning,
You’re broccoli.
You’re a prize,
You’re a night at Coney,
You’re the eyes
Of Irene Bordoni.
I’m a broken doll, a fol-de-rol, a blop,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom,
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re an Arrow collar.
You’re the top!
You’re a Coolidge dollar.
You’re the nimble tread of the feet of Fred Astaire,
You’re an O’Neill drama,
You’re Whistler’s mama,
You’re Camembert.
You’re a rose,
You’re Inferno’s Dante,
You’re the nose
On the great Durante.
I’m just in the way, as the French would say
“De trop,”
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a Waldorf salad.
You’re the top!
You’re a Berlin ballad.
You’re a baby grand of a lady and a gent,
You’re an old Dutch master
You’re Mrs. Astor,
You’re Pepsodent.
You’re romance,
You’re the steppes of Russia,
You’re the pants on a Roxy usher.
I’m a lazy lout that’s just about to stop,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re a dance in Bali.
You’re the top!
You’re a hot tamale.
You’re an angel, you, simply too, too, too diveen,
You’re a Botticelli,
You’re Keats,
You’re Shelley,
You’re Ovaltine.
You’re a boon,
You’re the dam at Boulder,
You’re the moon over Mae West’s shoulder.
I’m the nominee of the G. O. P.
Or GOP,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top!
You’re the top!
You’re the Tower of Babel.
You’re the top!
You’re the Whitney Stable,
By the River Rhine,
You’re a sturdy stein of beer,
You’re a dress from Saks’s,
You’re next year’s taxes,
You’re stratosphere.
You’re my thoist,
You’re a drumstick lipstick,
You’re do foist,
In da Irish Svipstick.
I’m a frightened frog
That can find no log
To hop,
But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
You’re the top!”