Monday, February 28, 2005

Sometimes, dreams are so odd that you have to write them down. Witness last night, when I drifted into a peaceful sleep, a sleep accompanied by the sound of a sustained, late winter rain that fell outside the bedroom window. But the dream had nothing to do with rain.

A friend and I (and I cannot recall who the friend was, whether male or female or any details at all) were driving around West Los Angeles. It seems that this friend had never visited there and wanted me to take him/her/it on a tour of the entire West L.A. area. I headed for Hollywood, although as I recall, the scenery in the dream, punctuated by clear blues skies and the occasional cypress tree, looked very little like Hollywood and more like Monterey. Nevertheless, after a few minutes of wandering around, we took a wrong turn on a small gravel road and ended up at the door of a 1960's style ranch house.

Not knowing exactly what to do, but most likely not being of sound mind either, we got out of the car and headed into the house. The garage was open, and it led to a door into the back of the house. Once inside, we were surrounded by 1960's decor, except for one wall, which had been painted teal and pink in ostensible homage to the 1980's. The owner, a balding man in his sixties, came out and introduced himself as "Cato", and even though we had never seen him before, he seemed glad to see us.

Cato showed us his collection of rare 1960's jazz albums, each of which had been purchased from a record club for $9.95. In the collection were such greats as Skitch Henderson, Dave Brubeck, and Stan Getz. The collection itself was arranged in the form of a wallpaper sample book, and we spent some time thumbing through the vast selection.

We had refreshments, and then after a time, we decided to leave, and Cato bid us farewell. We got back in the car, and then I heard a noise -- it was the morning alarm clock, sounding 6:51 AM. Whatever the adventure had been, or wherever it was going, it was at an end, and I awoke to another gray, drizzly Atlanta morning.

What does it mean? Well, what does any dream mean, other than an amalgamation of random thoughts which coalesce at some precise moment to show you some jazz greats, purchased on the installment plan...