Ravinia Dream

DIARY

Last night I had a dream; the first dream I've remembered in months.

To explain something about the way my sleep has been going these last several months; I'll typically get four to six hours per night during the week, and ten or eleven on weekends. I don't know what the precise effects of this patterns is, but I've never been good at remembering dreams, and for several weekends now I've woken up with at least a vivid impression of dreaming.

So the dream:

I was at an operatic performance at Ravinia (I think) or perhaps the Auditorium Theatre. Someone had given me a free ticket, and as I was picking it up at the ticket window, I noticed a figure going down the grand staircase on my left. It was Pope Benedict, although in mind he registered as Cardinal George. What tipped me off in dream logic were the words, "Yeah, sometimes the Cardinal goes to see the opera," but I should've been just as tipped off by the flowing red robes and staff and hat. While he was nearby, I became very angry and was tempted to begin yelling at him. But I restrained myself, clenching my teeth and hands against the ticket booth. He continued descending, turning a corner down the stair case and continuing out of sight.

Next, I went to my own seat, which was in the nosebleed section, in this case almost a literal truth. I only climber two flights of stairs, which means that the entire concert hall must be set predominantly underground. We were about 2/3 of the way around the stage. While the show we being performed in a shallow thrust space, all of the actors were facting forward. I was, therefore, watching the back of the actors heads. We were set about 300 feet back from the stage and 300 feet up. Plus, the seats themselves this far back were only eighth-of-an-inch thick "terraces" of carpeted floor that, presumably, levelled out more down near the more expensive seats. In fact, forty or fifty feet below, I could see where the terraces became 1/4 of an inch thick. It was a constant struggle not to slide down, and basically we relied upon planting out butts firmly against our "seats", digging our heels into the "seats" two or three rows down, plugging the palms of our hands in at our side, and praying that the friction would be enough to keep us from sliding. One of the audince members, a slightly older woman to my right, was swearing about this in an audible whisper and none of us were able to enjoy the (really weird looking... there were dancers in red jumpsuits carring giants inflatable yellow balls) show.

So I left.

And that's about all I remember.

What do you think?

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