Normally, I don't share my dreams. And "dreams" isn't some subtle code for hopes and aspirations. Those I share all the time. I'm talking actual middle-of-the-night hallucinations, now.
This one was just too odd, tho. Plus, I need to go run and get the Diva in a minute and this is the most interesting thing I can squeeze into the time I have left. Feel free to skip.
So this dream...
Neil Gaiman was leading a trip to the U.K. and I was lucky enough to be among the 30 or so folks on the trip. We were all on a plane that didn't have seats. It looked like a big cargo aircraft fitted with nice cushions and beanbags and a cockpit. I was reading a new Peter Beagle novel; Neil G was behind me. I turned to tell him how surprising the plot twist was - it involved a dragon - and pissed him off (which he expressed very politely being British and all) because he hadn't read the book yet.
The scenery changes. The landscape is black and white and full of gnarled trees and rocks. We're in the waaaaay north of Scotland, which didn't look anything like the Scotland that I know from my waking life but the subconscious cares not for how things really are. Wildly colored glass balls start to crop up, balanced in the boughs of the gnarled trees, floating down the dark gray stream.
"I invited another artist on the trip," Gaiman says. But then can't remember his name. All of us struggle to recall -- it was one of those tip-of-the-tongue sensations -- as the artist, with an eyepatch and curly wild hair, walks toward us. He's carrying an enormous glass sphere, streaked with blue and orange that pops against the background.
Then, I woke up. And the name -- Dale Chihuly, in case you hadn't guessed -- has been on my mind all morning.
I don't know what it means, either.