dreaming

Last night I had a dream, or maybe it was a series of dreams, that were more bizarre than most. The first that I remember featured a number of musicians. Some were musicians I know, but the main character was a trumpet player, a youngish blonde guy, cute, for whom I was to write a piece. I went to hear him play at the Brooklyn Museum, which looked like a Las Vegas casino, and he performed in a glittery costume, with a chorus line of dancers. I am not sure what type of piece I would be writing for him. Also, we met, but I did not reveal that I was composing something for him. He gave me his card. Later in the dream I was preparing various kinds of raw ground meat for my cats to eat. I would take the dishes of raw meat and place them in a chest that was in the backyard of the house I lived in; the backyard was identical to the backyard of my childhood home. The chest was like the one in my apartment. I would leave the dishes of ground meat in the chest, baking in the hot sun (it was summer in this part of the dream) where I assume they would rot, since the cats did not eat any of it. While doing so, I discussed mosquito control with Greg, a french horn player I know. I was also picking up the dead bodies of those giant mosquitos that used to scare me so when I was a kid. I remember that in that yard the grass was brown, dried from the hot sun, and that the house was in Chicago.

I dreamed all of this in the latter part of the night. I had fallen asleep early, feeling feverish, and woke when Y came home from dinner, which was very late. After waking, I did not fall into a very satisfying sleep, and the dreams were sufficiently disturbing to keep me in a state of agitation. Now I feel as though I did not sleep at all.