Flight Tests
Dreamed 2025/4/9 by Wayan
THAT MORNING
For the World Dream Bank, I finish illustrating the dream Big Cat In Bed--clean up the main picture of the cat, then add a sketch of the bed itself, that carried me around on roller-legs, and winked at me.
Crude, but it'll get the idea across. The science fiction writer & critic Samuel Delany argued that mundane subject matter allows for ornate and indirect styles, but the weirder the content, the plainer and clearer your depiction needs to be. He meant it about writing--mainstream literature's obsession with style, science fiction's relative focus on content and ideas--but it applies equally well to dream art. A crude cartoon may be as good as photorealism, and is probably better than vague impressionism.
THAT AFTERNOON
Read the webcomic Crumbs by Danie Stirling: Ray's a lonely witch who mostly sees the present but occasional flashes of future(s). That drives off most lovers. Musician Laurie's not (too) scared of the lack of privacy, but he does fear flying; his parents died in a broom crash. Love and flying lessons ensue.
But their career ambitions could drive them apart: Ray wants to reform the witch-laws, and Laurie needs to tour...
The art's unpretentious, but the writing's strong. And one out of two is enough. I can't think of a cartoonist who's equally strong at both. Charles Schultz, creator of Peanuts, considered himself mediocre at both; just enough of a craftsman to make sure both were good enough to say what he needed to, and not so flashy they'd distract you. Simple as Zen.
Content and style again.
THAT EVENING
Bike down to Davies Hall to hear pianist Martin James Barlett. Facile, skilled. But he doesn't bring out the themes or structure much for me--they all sound pleasant but like a background pianist noodling in a bar. Couperin. Rameau. Schumann's Kinderzenen, at least with a theme I recognize. Wagner's Liebestod, flashy but solid; a real theme that Barlett can't smother in cute. Ravel, La Valse, 1920--not a waltz, nor classical nor modernist dissonance; I think it's jazz-influenced, more Django Reinhart than Igor Stravinsky. Subtle; maybe I'm wrong. Barlett doesn't hear that, or play that. Because it's not there, or just that he's too busy being flashy?
My criticism's largely just envy, of course. I'm a sickly composer who for decades was too ill to play what I could hear in my head. He has the privilege of stamina, education, support, and fingers that obey him. He can play, and is getting paid for it... but can he hear?
Yes. He hears the surface just fine. Style.
But content? Well... I was never moved.
THAT NIGHT
Dream 1: WITCH'S FLYING LESSON
A classic pointy-hat witch gives me a flying lesson on her broom. We ride out over San Francisco Bay. The water looks wider and deeper than I recall--clear, deep indigo, not shallow, muddy green. One ruined old pier goes way out, a mile or two... with modern windmills on it, around it. Indeed, they dot the whole Bay, except a few shipping lanes.
The witch recklessly swoops under this line of flight hazards. "I bet she just broke a dozen FAA regs" I think, then flinch and duck as a huge yellow blade slashes by my head.
Despite that, I have to admit... I'm having fun.
I'm being honest. I'm stoic--when exploring new, dangerous things, I just hope to come out whole. But she, like most people, cares about comfort too.
DREAM NOTES
Dream 2: FUSION ENGINE
I'm Woody Allen--well, the early neurotic Allen, not the late pervy Allen. In this movie, I play a furniture magnate who's built a controlled-fusion rocket engine in his spare time. Even a zillionaire needs a hobby.
Set it up in a sandy lot, pointed at the Bay. Fire it up. Yes! It works! A fusion drive!
The engine vibrates a little, a deep tone inaudible to me but palpable. I sing & play music along with it. My prototype only has a throttle for volume and a lever elevating the muzzle; I adjust the pitch of the vibration using these.
Later, I spill some grain alcohol. Worry it'll catch fire, and a little does, but I toss sand on it and snuff it before the splash on my coat blazes up. Remove my coat. I don't need it anyway, with the fusion engine on--my own personal sun!
What test object should I send into orbit? Can't be much bigger than a centimeter, the bore of this test jet is just half an inch. It can lift itself into space and go on indefinitely on years on a gram of fuel, but this first cargo has to be small. Four foldable molecules come out roughly cubical; any will make a good bullet-sized payload. I've tested them by folding printouts around dice (they're just the right size). All four fold spontaneously into tight packages I think can take being blasted into space.
One of my suppliers, who imports upholstry fabric from China, discovers I've reprinted a design he's got trademarked, on fabric on one of my chair-backs. I didn't steal it for money, I just liked it and wanted one for ME. Shows the Monkey King on a jungle throne, and I identify with Monkey. You can see why. Tinkerer!
As an apology, I give him the choice of which molecule-satellite to fire into orbit, plus public credit as my friend and backer...
DREAM NOTES
SO WHAT'S IT ALL MEAN?
Both dreams had reckless but successful tests of weird ways to fly. I don't see what I did today that merited such dreams. Biking down to the Civic Center, dodging the deathmonsters cars? Blending AI- and non-AI art tricks? An herbal regimen working where doctors have utterly failed?
Two dreams of breakthroughs like this aren't chance. What milestone did I pass, that my waking mind missed?
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