I was playing English horn on some sort of shortened version of Nutcracker. The second half of the show didn’t need me, but I realized, during intermission, that I was supposed to play something on oboe after the second half ended. Yikes. My reeds were at home (apparently I didn’t play oboe in the first half).

I drove to get my reeds—insert long convoluted story here about using my mother’s car—and finally located them. But not at my house. I was at the General Manager’s house instead. And he was angry, because the night before I had left and not played the oboe part. I explained that he never told me about it (although I had done it last year; I didn’t remind him of that!) so he sort of backed off and took the blame. Whew.

Walking back, suddenly with Dan and Jameson, I realized I’d forgotten my mom’s car. But now I’d lost my way to the GM’s house! (He lived in some sort of bizarre city with castles and cobblestones). I rambled all over. I cried and cried. I wound up at some sort of hall, but not the one at which I was to perform. I finally found his house.

Suddenly I was back at the hall, but I had missed everything. The head of the ballet yelled and yelled but I came back with many tears and a fabulous speech about how, while he was upset, he couldn’t possibly imagine how much more upset I was. I went on and on, and the head of the box office said something that implied I really knew how to convince people of things.

In any case, the dream was much more elaborate, and very troubling.

Musicians have dreams about forgetting concerts, not knowing music, playing an instrument (usually soloing) unknown to them … it runs the gamut.

But now I’m very, very tired. It’s exhausting going up and down cobblestone streets and being yelled at. Really.
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