Do you sometimes doubt your own brain, or is it just me?
Do things pop into your head at random moments, and you wonder why your brain picked just that particular moment to present you with a vision of Paris Hilton with two noses or Betty White as a nursing-home resident in an old-folks production of "Mame" that coincidentally has Harvey Feirstein in the lead?
Or again, is that just me?
I ask, becasue going to sleep for me is a nightly adventure, a time in which my brain, generally so well-behaved by day, pulls out all the stops and really puts on a show. Last night's offering was the aforementioned Broadway production, but I didn't get just a glimpse, oh no, that would be far too mundane! I got so very much more!
The hall in which the show was was to be performed was actually the dining hall at the retirment home, and still smelled of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and Lysol. The carpet was a muted red, the walls had an ornate chair rail, above which was a brocade-like pink wallcovering and below which was painted a creamy white. There was a grand piano in the corner that was covered with a rug and stuffed dog. Large windows on the southen wall allowed in a diffused afternoon light through the sheers and heavy curtains. Large potted palms flanked each window, and were slightly dusty.
The costumes were a pale purple flapper style for the chorus AND stars, with beadwork on the hem and sleeves that swayed when the "girls" did their modest dance number (not so much with the high kicking, apparently). The necklines were ladylike scoops, the hair ornaments were beaded caps that sat on the back of their white heads, like wee disco yarmulkes, the shoes were typical dancer-style pumps dyed to match the dresses.
The director wore a red cravat and had wild gray hair. He used to "be somebody" on the great white way, and all the girls loved him. He wore a monocle and spats and had slightly sour breath and long yellow teeth.
Harvey F sang in a fetching ladylike tone and wore a gray foofy wig that did nothing to detract from the 6-o'clock shadow he had going on. He had lost a considerable amount of weight in this dreamworld, and wore a size 12 dress. I know this becuase he asked me to zip it up as he was rushing to take his mark. His speaking voice was what you'd expect. I marvelled at his ability to change it for the songs. He smelled like cigar smoke and whiskey.
The scene was suffused with a sense of excitement as Betty White appeared on the scene in her white tee shirt and blue pull-on pants. Apparently my brain thinks Betty is rather tall and very slender. My brain also believes that Betty has worn falsies for all these years, because she pulled them out of her bowling bag along with the blond wig she was going to use to cover her abundant snow-white locks and throatily burbled - "which way to the ladies, ladies?"
At which point the singing began, and the orchestra appeared, and the beaded hems swayed in unison, and Harvey spun Betty around as they belted out "who ya gonna call?" from Ghostbusters until they collapsed on the floor, weeping with laughter and the director yelled "CUT!" and I woke up.
Looking at Paris Hilton and her two noses.
Somebody care to take on a dissection of THAT dream? I totally dare ya.
Softly, softly creeps the night
A rambling mind takes evening flight
To lands of golden bright delight
Or hells of wicked burning fright
But dewey hazy morning light
Breaks the gaze of my mind's sight
I try to keep the visions bright
To understand the dreaming sleight