Summer Nights

Driving home through the night, the smell of ozone and damp asphalt evoking the summers of my youth. Storm rising in the south, a band of black across the wild profusion of stars. Lightning flashing from cloud to cloud, the bursts and fades partially obscured within the bank of thunderheads. When I finally arrived home, I stood stretching in the driveway and almost fell over backward tracing the milky way with my eyes.

Another late night playing at the Prospect Trophy Room. The audience outnumbered the taxidermy, but not by much. We shared the bill with our pals in 8 Dollar Mountain. I was so tired that I could only stay for a few of their songs, but they sounded great. The bass player plays an electric stand up bass; it looks and sounds pretty sweet.

Awaking early to a heavy sky and the faint smell of smoke, I willed myself back to sleep and dreamed vividly of my recently deceased boss Peter Thomas. I was in room with a bunch of work folks. At one point the actor G Val Thomas was sitting next to me; at another, Artistic Director Bill Rauch was watching me from a window. I was bitching vociferously about some work outrage, consciously choosing to air my grievances in detail, even though I knew Bill was listening. As I was ranting, I noticed that Bill was gone and Peter was sitting next to me, looking at me with deep and genuine compassion. Peter was a compassionate man, but that wasn't really his default mode of expression, at least not with me. He and I loved to bitch and dish about work absurdities, and his sense of humor was wicked. In my dream, there was nothing remotedly wicked or cynical or ironic in his countenance; he was beatific. He listened to me complain with such love on his face and, in a kind and supportive tone, suggested that I talk to the HR manager. I threw out some excuse about HR being a big part of the problem, but then, unbidden, I immediately recanted. I said that he was right, I shouldn't bitch about work unless I was willing to do something about it. Then I woke up.

Lying in a post-dream fugue state, I tried to recall what had set me off in the dream. I could clearly recall the conversation with Peter but, try as I might, I could not remember what I was complaining about. It was a specific incident that felt real and important, but I couldn't recall a single detail.

Another message from my unconsciousness: It does no good to complain unless I'm also willing to do something. Am I willing to change that which I cannot accept?