So in this morning’s dream, I’m in the back seat of a car with an unidentified group of friends as we drive through small-town America. (They’re unidentified not because they’re necessarily strangers, but because their identities are unimportant to the dream at this point, I guess, so I’m as yet unaware of who they are and whether or not I know them in real life.) As we pass one home, sort of a refurbished farmhouse, I note that next to it is an exact replica of the massive perisphere from the 1939 World’s Fair.

It’s so odd to me to come across this unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere that I want us to stop and take a look, to learn how and why the thing is there, but the faceless driver keeps speeding on, turning this way and that through the small-town streets no matter how much I protest. But I so want to investigate the perisphere that I open the car door and tumble out as it continues speeding on without me.

After I stop rolling and bouncing, I start walking back, but long before I find any perisphere, I discover the town’s small museum. Inside, I chat with the caretaker, an older woman, and for some reason she tells me that I might have heard of the town because the name of their sheriff is Wesley Snipes. In the dream, that strikes a chord, and I remember having heard about that aspect of the town in a mocking television news report. (In real life, of course, I know of no such coincidental occurrence.)

As I wander the small building, it turns out to be more gift shop than museum. Mixed in with perisphere-themed objects such as crystal paperweights, drawings, and paper sculptures, are things that have nothing to do with the perisphere, such as ornate editions of Lord of the Rings. As I move through the aisles, puzzling over why these random items should be for sale, one of my companions is suddenly beside me, having convinced my fellow travelers to double back and rescue me.

It’s Julie Watt-Evans, with whom I once took a Chinese language course in real life. Her husband, Lawrence Watt-Evans, is not with her, and I have no idea if he had even been with us in the car in the first place.

I wake up as Julie and I eye the same crystal paperweight and try to decide which of us should end up with it, since we both seem to want it. I never become aware of the identities of the rest of my friends, and I never do make it back to the perisphere.

I dreamt this morning that I was working with the entire SCIFI.COM staff out of a storefront office in a strip mall. I knew this because I could make out the crowded parking lot through the front windows. My real-life boss was there, as were my other real-life coworkers. Only we weren’t engaged in our real-life job of putting together a Web site, but instead were running a literary agency.

At no point were we ever actually reading manuscripts as part of this agency, however. Instead, we were opening packages arriving from writers—and, strangely, from other literary agencies—and inserting them into a large machine which resembled an old-fashioned clunky photocopier. The machine would then pass judgment and spit out an answer.

After doing this for awhile, I found myself wandering the halls of what seemed like a fancy hotel—plush carpeting, highly polished doors outside each room, lots of flower arrangements. On each door, instead of a room number, there was a plaque with the name of a literary agency or publishing company, as if when you checked in it became public knowledge in which room you stayed.

As I wandered the hall looking for my room, I was wearing nothing but a towel (as opposed to the first half of the dream, in which I was fully clothed), but unlike those anxiety dreams in which you’re in school taking a test in your underwear, I didn’t care. I was calm and serene. There seemed to be nothing unusual about it. I’d pass people I knew in the hall—Ginjer Buchanan, for example—and say hello to them and chat briefly as if I did this all the time. So there was no “Where the Hell are my pants?” about this dream.

Then, as if on cue, every door on the floor opened and everybody poured out into the hallway. Fire drill? Convention programming about to begin? TIme for lunch? I have no idea why the mass room exodus. And once more, there was no anxiety about being in the midst of this crowd in my just-stepped-from-the-shower state. (I guess I have no shame.) I merely continued looking for my room, nodding to those I knew, until I woke.

I had a dream this morning in which I was hanging out at a hotel with the Jonas Brothers and the guys from Entourage, two sets of people I’d never want anything to do with in real life. (While I do watch the Entourage TV show, they’re far too self-absorbed to be trusted, and as for the Jonas Brothers, they seem nice enough, but they also seem rock lite, and little more than today’s edition of the Monkees.) Anyway, after awhile in the hotel bar, someone gets the idea to hop in a limo and drive around the city.

Once we do, the city which passes by outside our windows could be any big, generic megalopolis, so I can’t tell you exactly where we were. But eventually we pass one of those upscale gentlemens clubs the Entourage guys love to frequent on their show. Out front, half-naked woman covered with leopard spots and wearing cat-like face make-up are doing gymnastics to attract attention. The car is stopped, and Vince and the guys vanish inside.

I’m left with the Jonas Brothers, and they look at each other as if to say, “Uh-oh, we can’t get caught here,” out of fear that it would ruin their squeaky clean tweener image. They look back and forth from each other to the woman again, over and over, and then they, too, leap out of the car and disappear inside the club, leaving me alone in the back of a stretch limo. After a moment, I decide to head inside to track down my companions. (more…)

I dreamt this morning that I was at a summit meeting of sorts. Only this wasn’t the high-end kind taking place in an oak-paneled boardroom with plush carpeting. Instead, it was rather low rent, being held under the bright lights of a gymnasium. There were ten of us there, five on either side of a long, narrow formica table. On one side, the elder statesmen of science fiction. On the other, some young punks. Well, call them not-so-young punks, since one of them was me.

This was a dream which immediately began to evaporate upon waking, so I can only remember that Jack Williamson and Fred Pohl were among the giants on the opposite side of the table. It didn’t strike me at all odd that Jack was there, even though he died two years ago. Unfortunately, the only writer I can remember from my side of the table was … me. I’m sad that this particular dream happened to evanesce; I’d love to know which writers my subconscious thought should be joining us!

Anyway, as this meeting of the minds took place, Fred kept hogging the conversation, and Jack, who was shuffling through papers while this was going on, finally had to tell him to keep quiet. “I want to hear what the kids think,” said Jack. Only to someone Jack’s age—he died at 98½—could I possibly seem like a kid!

With Fred quiet, the writers on my side started to share their thoughts about science fiction, but then, with the limberness of a teenager, Fred vanished under the table. He began to pull some sort of prank having to do with my feet, but as to whether he tied my shoelaces together or stuck matches in my shoes to set them on fire the way you only see in old movies and comic books, well, that’s another detail that’s been lost to me, and I vaguely remember both.

I woke as the writers on my side of the table were speaking, and immediately began to scribble down the dream, but these details were gone, all gone.

In my final dream this morning, a dream which has since become rather fuzzy, Doctor Octopus was engaged in one of his nefarious schemes, only it seemed something larger than what Doc Ock would normally do, almost on a grand Doctor Doom scale of criminal plot.

I vaguely recall that it had something to do with scooping up Manhattan and shrinking the island down so that he could make a souvenir for himself, much like Braniac did with the bottled city of Kandor. The details are fading away, but in the dream I was a witness to this actually happening.

But then the dream took on a meta-level, and I found myself sitting next to Len Wein while the two of us calmly debated whether or not this was something Doc Ock would actually do. Len felt that this action was not characteristic of this particular super-villain, and was way beyond him, while I was taking the position that Doc Ock could have pulled it off. I was quoting scenes from early issues of Spider-Man to defend my position (which in the light of day does not seem defensible).

What was the weirdest thing to me about the dream what that it was as if the villainy was both happening and not happening. I don’t think that if Manhattan was really being stolen that two guys would be calmly discussing the event as if they were Siskel and Ebert reviewing a movie.

I woke in the midst of this bantering with Len, but because I didn’t immediately scribble down the dream, much of it has evaporated.

I woke this morning from a dream in which Irene and I were hosting a huge party at our house. All the usual suspects were there, including people who’ve been to either the barbecues or daffodils parties we’ve hosted in real life, such as Karen Newton, Charlie Newton, Steven desJardins, Sandy Stewart, Risa Stewart, and others, plus many people who’ve never been at our home and whom I’ve only seen at conventions. That latter group was made up of BNFs, con runners, and the like, as opposed to professional writers and editors. The purpose of the party was to hold a book exchange, and each person brought a suitcase full of books, the contents of which were emptied out and piled together in the middle of the room.

At some point, I decided to give a tour of the wilderness outside our door, so we all piled in my Jeep—and yes, that’s all, as if I was driving some sort of impossibly full clown car—and went down the road to explore a nearby park. But it wasn’t the real-life 23,000 acre Sleepy Creek Wildlife Management Area we were trying to enter, but some other imaginary dream forest, and though my jeep did fine climbing over boulders and crossing streams, we eventually got to a part of the path where saplings had grown up to block our way.

This seemed strange, because by their size they had been growing for years, and I hadn’t remembered them being there before. In the back of my mind, I wondered whether deer-hunting season was yet over—after all, I didn’t want any of my guests shot! But then I realized that it had ended the day before. (In real life, the last day of the season was Saturday.) I thought of returning home to get a saw so we could clear the path and proceed, but I realized that we didn’t have time for that. We were going to have to find a different way to get in if we wanted to explore. (more…)

In my final dream of the morning, I’m at a minor league baseball stadium with Paul Di Filippo. We’re not paying much attention to the game itself as we sit in the bleachers, though, entertaining ourselves more by eating stadium food and drinking our bottled water than we are with what’s happening on the field. In fact, as I get up to head over to a nearby snack bar to restock us, I never even notice that a foul ball is heading our way. It bounces once against an empty seat and lands right in my hand, surprising me. The crowd reminds me to hold it high over my head to claim it. As I do, I can hear a small boy cry out, “That was supposed to be my ball!”

I walk down to the bottom of the bleachers, and the player who had hit the ball comes over to autograph it. I look at the ball as I hand it over, and it’s nothing like an official baseball. (I know this because in real life I once caught one and had it signed by Cal Ripken, Jr.) Instead, it seems solid rubber, is green, and has already been signed by others many times before.

As the player, who turns out to be nicknamed Sparky, signs the ball, we joke, but he tells me to keep it clean since we’re being picked up by live television. While we banter, I’m thinking that perhaps I might turn the ball over to the child who’d bawled about wanting it, but then the player asks my name, and autographs the souvenir to me directly, which kills that idea. (more…)

In last night’s dream, Irene and I are at a science-fiction convention walking through the halls of a hotel, heading toward a ballroom at which a cocktail party is being held. As we near the room, we bump into David Hartwell, and continue along with him, chatting. Once in the vast, high-ceilinged, and crowded room, we grab drinks, split up, and proceed to mingle and schmooze. As I stand there, drink in hand, surveying the crowd, I realize that I don’t know what day it is. Is the Hugo Awards ceremony still to come, or have I missed it?

I spot David again, this time standing by a small table with Marty Greenberg. I go over to ask them, because if the Hugos are that night, I need to head back to my hotel room and change into a suit. But before we can talk, we’re suddenly no longer at a World Science Fiction Convention …

… but instead in the cul-de-sac of Woodview Drive, the street on which I used to live over in Maryland from 1989 until 2004. I’m standing in front of my old house with Irene and Marty and David, but also with Lois Gresh, and they all have luggage, as if they plan on staying with me for awhile. There’s a problem, however, I tell them—I don’t live there anymore. We need to head over the West Virginia, where I’m living now.

So I get into my Jeep and drive down the street. I don’t get more than a quarter of a mile before I realize that my guests are not in the Jeep with me, they’re instead walking alongside it. I decide that this is silly, that we won’t get very far that way, and so stop, get out, and tell them to get in. But once I do, the vehicle is no longer something large enough to carry us all, but rather a motorized golf car, open to the air on all sides. Perhaps four people could fit inside, but not a fifth, and certainly not the luggage as well. (more…)

I dreamt this morning that I was crushed inside a small elevator with Jeffrey Ford. We were headed many miles underground to an abandoned coal mine which had been turned into an art gallery and performance space. It was a long and seemingly endless journey down. Once we reached our destination, I wasn’t quite claustrophobic in the repurposed area, but I could feel the weight of the Earth’s crust above me, and was always aware of it throughout the dream.

The exhibits in the dark and narrow room were in small pens behind metal chain link fencing. I could see books, magazines, and bizarre sculptural artifacts on display, but now that I’m awake I can no longer remember the specifics of any of them. There were many other visitors milling about in the tiny space, but the only one I recognized (other than Jeffrey Ford, who had arrived with me) was Bruce Sterling, who was being treated like a celebrity. Bruce was happy and laughing, carefree and casual, the only one seemingly unconcerned that a sudden cave-in might crush us all.

The host of the space brought over a young fan, and offered her to Sterling, as if Chairman Bruce was allowed anyone there as a form of droit de seigneur. But Bruce was a gracious Lord, and waved the punkish blonde woman off.

My attention returned to the exhibits, and I cursed myself for failing to bring along my camera. I thought of returning to the surface for it, but knew that another roundtrip would take hours, and by then it would be too late, for the exhibit space would be dismantled.

I awoke while bemoaning my forgetfulness.

I dreamt last night that was I interviewing Beverly Cleary, the author of such classic children’s books as Henry Huggins, Ramona the Pest, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, and Ramona Quimby, Age 8. It was a phone interview, and I was at home with all sorts of print-outs spread across my desk, including spread sheets and sales figures. I was doing quite well at first at maintaining a professional and serious demeanor, but then my facade dropped away and I turned into a raving fanboy, embarrassing myself by gushing about how much I’d loved her books as a kid.

Then the dream jumped to me hearing the phone ring while I was in the shower. I stepped out as quickly as I could, wrapped myself in an enormous, fluffy white hotel bathrobe (something which I don’t own in real life), and rushed to the phone, only to find that Cleary was there, and had already answered. While she was explaining to the caller that I was currently unavailable, I could see my wife arrive from the other end of the hall, also too late to grab the phone.

As I stood there stunned and in awe, thinking, “What the heck is Beverly Cleary doing here?,” I woke.

Amazingly, Beverly Cleary is still alive at age 92.