Dreams and False Alarms

The other night I dreamt that I met a garbageman who was also a virtuosic singer of early music, a tenor who sang according to all the authoritative research into authentic seventeenth-century performance practices.  I was floored when I heard him, and wondered why he worked as a garbageman.  "It's great, man," he asserted, explaining that, as a garbageman, he was free to sing what and when he wanted, and didn't run the risk of becoming a dessicated "professional," hustling to make his living as a singer and  losing all joy in singing in the process.

The next night, I dreamt that I was eligible for a gigantic grant which was, however, contingent upon the recipient's agreeing to live a more corrupt lifestyle.  So I signed on to become the second wife of a friend who was already married, and kept waiting for the money.  But somehow the weariness that sprang up in my soul nullified the benefits of the cash I was poised to receive.