(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?