Monday, April 25, 2005

Dreaming of Bruce ...

I just woke up, earlier than usual. Just after 5:30. Too early for me. But I'd been dreaming of Bruce Springsteen, and I decided not to go back to sleep, lest I lose the memory. I got up to write about it instead.

Bruce was doing a CD signing, but it was low-key. A guy from his camp was selling the CDs behind where Bruce was sitting, signing them. The chair the guy was sitting in was a chair my mom has in her living room. The CDs were stuck between the the arm and the seat of the chair. I wanted two, but he wasn't taking credit cards. I got out my wallet to see how much cash I had on me as he announced that discs were 30 bucks. Someone I didn't know handed me a $50 and I bought a disc, planning on getting her her money from my dad, but that never happened in my dream.

So I got behind a few people who were hanging around while Bruce signed their disc (now he was sitting in the chair from mom's house) and I held it up in front of me, trying to be casual, as if trying to ask, as the people before me walked away, "Will you sign one more?" Bruce gave the OK sign, narrowed his eyes at me and smiled slightly, nodded his head as if to say, "Sure, baby. One more." I handed my brother Brian my purse and my digital camera (I don't own a digital camera in the waking world) and crouched down to Bruce's left for a picture. Bruce motioned for my brother to give him the camera, flipped it over, started pushing buttons on the back.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Are you looking at the pictures I took? Oh God, Bruce is looking at the pictures I took."

He came across a shot I had taken of Gwen (my voice teacher) and then a shot of pottery I'd taken in an antique store near my house. "It's a place full of crap," I said. "If you want to write a song about crap, I can show you crap," I said, kinda smacking his left arm with the back of my right hand. Gently. He laughed.

Suddenly, from somewhere, he had a vase someone had been painting for me. He also, somehow, had a brush. Started adding short, horizontal lines to the design already on the vase, then swirled the brush around to connect the lines to each other, forming a a perfect swirl. It was like magic. Like Bruce has magic in him. Which, of course, he must.

"Let me see that baby blanket you had with you," he said. I said to my brother, still holding my purse, "Just give me the whole thing." I got out the baby blanket for Bruce, along with an assortment of pens, because he wanted to write something on it. He was fascinated with my blue no-photo marker. (When I worked at the Tribune, we'd use them to literally sign off on pages before they went to the presses. A camera took a picture of the page, and created a plate as the negative. The blue ink doesn't show up in photographs, so you could write on the pages but the ink was invisible to the camera's eye.) As he was deciding what pen to use, I rummaged through my purse, which was even bigger than normal, but which I explained to Bruce that I'd made instead of a portfollio. He seemed to like the idea. I found some FruitStripe gum. I thought about offering a piece to Bruce, but didn't. I thought he'd like lime (it's my favorite), but then, in my dream, realized that sugary gum would be bad for his voice, so I put it away.

I woke up shortly after that. My dream had moved on to another scene. I looked at the clock. Early. Too early. But I can always take a nap. I wanted to get this down. It was the first time Bruce and I hung out in my dreams.


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