Recently, I've been looking forward to entering a charity 5K race. Now, I'm by no means the world's greatest athlete, but I can run a bit. And 5K's closer to a sprint than a marathon for me.

So I pay the $15 to enter, and I show up for the big race. However, apparently, I've been deceived: this isn't a 5K run, it's a yacht race. Now, I've always been a landlubber myself, but I've paid the entry fee, so I have to race. Luckily, a yacht is provided.
Now, the important thing to remember is that I've never piloted a yacht in my life. And there's no crew to assist me—it's just me against the elements.
After about two hours, my boat comes out to an opening in whatever body of water we're racing on (my best guess is Lake Michigan, but I could be wrong). I get caught up in an eddie and am stuck, unable to get my boat anywhere. I see the other yachts passing me up about 50 yards out to either side, and I'm worried that I'm going to lose.
An adept steering man?uver that I didn't know I had in me magically guides my craft out of the eddie, and I begin to pick up speed at an exceedingly rapid pace. I pass up all of the other boats but one, and place second.
Second! I can't believe it! I fought so hard to win this thing, and I only placed second? Then they tell me:
"This was just the qualifying heat. Your time was good enough to make the final round."
I reply, "So you mean I've got to run this thing again?!"

And then I woke.

(Last night, I got very drunk for the first time. Tired drunk, not stupid drunk. Tired, stumbling drunk. I would expect my dreams to be effected thusly. )

I am with my theater group, the people who spent the last week helping me turn one of my plays into a coherant production, or at least part of one. We are having fun, being loud. It is a continuation of the night. There is a man. He may be a writer. He may be a woman. He is important, in a writerly sense. Perhaps a regional celebrity. He may be chained up. He writes things for us. Is he Nick Cave, who taught a class to me in a previous dream? Is he the muse who was chained up in an issue of Sandman? No. This is much more benign. I am having the fun in dreams I missed by giving myself up to them.

My brother, who does not like music and especially dislikes folk music, is attending a concert given by a rather large folksinger. She is Canadian, the stage is outdoors in Canada. My brother is near the front. This bears some relationship to the circumstances in which I saw Nick Cave; the lady bears a resemblence to the lead singer of George, a local band who I disliked enough to slander in my play.

Around her neck is a vial contained in the handle of a dagger. Leonard Cohen has given her this dagger. She is his chosen succesor; at the moment of Cohen's death the lady will plunge the dagger into herself or into another worthy. The continuity of idols and gods is thus preserved.

I wake, and hope that others have made similar preperations. Will you find yourself pricked by a syringe after a late night binge and gain a voice of whisky and glass?

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