OK, here's one of the more bizarre ones I've had in awhile, and my recollection is sketchy. This is from last night:
I am in Rainer Maria Rilke's body. It is the early 20th century; teens, maybe '20s. I am wearing a dark brown suit, which I observe on my legs and forearms. I am walking around a small room. To my left, an old woman comes and sits on a (green velvet?) sofa across from my desk. The sofa has an arched back and the velvet is set in a polished dark wood frame. She looks very prim. I feel she might be related to me, but she reaches over and grabs her boxy little purse from a nearby spot in the room where she was standing before, and clutches it to her body. I wonder if she thought it wasn't safe, if she thought I might steal something from her.
This thought bothers me. It bothers me also that she is here. Why is she here? I have to work! I have to find a way to ignore her.
To this end, I walk to a credenza on which there rests a record player and a record. The record is by Tim Buckley. I remove the disk from its sleeve and, without putting it on, I can hear the music. On the paper-covered center, where the song listing usually is on records, there is a picture of Buckley and it is moving as a movie, and he is singing along with the music I hear.
(My lucid self jumps in at this point and says, "What the hell is a 70s folk-rock artist doing in an early 20th-century poet's office?" Also, it is not an album I recognize.)
I put aside the vinyl and look at the album cover. It is a photograph of Buckley but in the lower-left-to-middle area is the floor in front of him, essentially a blank, tan-colored space. I take a pen and begin to draw a shape in that space, and the shape resembles a jigsaw puzzle-piece. I think, either as Rilke or lucidly as myself (they are starting to blur now), "This is where Jeff goes."
