I woke up an hour ago, about 5:30, having just dreamed about about Tom Cruise. What is upsetting is that the dream wasn’t. If this were an off-the-shelf homoerotic slog, I wouldn’t bother to write. I woke up feeling calm and warm. My skin was warm. That’s my definition of a good dream. Just now, I hear Oskar in the bathroom shutting off the shower and drying off, and I can feel an anxiety rattle around inside — soon he’ll be dressed and out here and what’s left of that dream will atomize into the ether.
I was inside a big old house, a shabby Craftsman with dusty wood floors and hazy window light. There were a few of us, men and women, living together or working together there. It was morning, and we were all trying to get the house sorted so we could get on with the day, though what that day promised is already lost. Tom Cruise comes in the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. Not for everybody, just for himself. He’s running late. He’s Tom Cruise, the actor, so we’re probably working on a film. Am I the writer ? The director ? I don’t know.
The last time I had a directing dream was the night before the first day of shooting on Permanent Midnight (or principal photography, as Eric Jonrosh would say). In that dream, I was lining up a complicated night shot, and Bob Yeoman, Gentleman Cinematographer, Esq., came over to tell me that Stephen Spielberg was visiting the set. Oh, and that I was naked. That’s right. I had a dream of directing a shot entirely naked while the director’s director observed. Spielberg came over and said, of course, that I didn’t seem to know what I was doing. I woke up in a sweaty funk with a deep awful cough, and when I got in my car to drive over to the location, I found the window smashed and all the electronics ripped out. Then a few minutes before the first shot of the film, a crow dropped a warm shit on my right shoulder. The rest is history.
Anyway, dream coffee is different than real coffee. The coffee maker was a large open drum, into which TC had poured about two pounds of arabica beans along with some nuts and spices. He started the grinder, but then he stopped it again, not quite ready. He grabbed two big apples and put them in the drum as well, and he turned to me with that million dollar smile.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Well, they might work better if they were dried,” I said. He didn’t understand what I meant. “There’s a lot of water in apples.”
He took the apples out of the drum and threw them across the counter toward the fruit bowl, but he missed. He tried to act like he was happy I saved him from soggy beans, but he was pissed.
“David, nice. Of course.”
Somebody came in and said that we had to get going soon, and Tom got all bitchy and pursed of lip.
“I have to goddamn eat ! I can’t not eat!” he was saying as I left the room.
That was it. It felt great. I felt great. It was a good dream. It probably doesn’t have anything to do with that Spielberg dream, because I am not about to direct or anything, but fuck you, it’s my dream, and it means what I need it to mean.