May. 20th, 2017

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Really odd dream… I was acting in a movie. Or was it a play? It was hard to tell them apart. And I’d been given a set of lines to memorize except that I hadn’t memorized them, and the performance was immanent. I wasn’t really sure what to do: Did I smuggle the lines in on a piece of paper and surreptitiously glance at them from time to time to remain letter perfect (which would surely ruin my performance), or did I make up lines that seemed like a logical response to the other actors’ lines (which would almost surely ruin their perfomances)?

Peter O’Toole was attending the performance, and I was introduced to him. Not the beautiful, mad-blue-eyed Lawrence of Arabia Peter O’ Toole but not the alcoholic walking cadaver he became later in his career either. “Ah, yes: You wrote that novel,” he said, politely taking my hand.

And he looked at me – and his gaze was the most provocative, astounding thing ever because I could see in the infinitesimal contractions and dilations of his pupils and the microexpressions that flitted across his face a world of subtle communication that was far, far beyond my limited capacity ever to understand.

I was supposed to essay a British accent in the original script.

I cannot do a British accent while Peter O’Toole is watching, I thought. Even though I’m actually not too bad at British accents.

Then I was being hustled off to the set of a reality TV show – unrelated to the original script I had failed to memorize.

The premise of this reality TV show was that the contestants would be filmed while being asked to identify the subject matter of various photos and pictures. Audience members at home would then vote on the contestants’ reactions via Twitter and other social media platforms unknown outside my dream, and the contestants with the lowest votes would be ejected.

“Should I go to hair and makeup?” I asked the producer.

“Oh, we don’t do hair and makeup,” said the producer. “You should have done that at home.”

But, of course, I hadn’t. I’m going to be the first one voted out, I thought. A very pale, somewhat witchy-looking old woman with practically invisible eyebrows. People at home are gonna hate me.

The first category was Marvel Superheroes That Don’t Exist, and the example given was Chifa Man – who was the offspring of a Chinese railroad worker and an immortal Incan goddess/priestess, born outside Lima in 1884.

Fuckin’ ridiculous, I thought. And then it dawned on me that this reality TV show was a protracted marketing focus group and that everything in this world was either a marketing focus group or an actual sale.

And there was really nothing I could do to escape from it –

-- except to wake up --

-- which I did.

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