A Scottish Fever Dream

To quote myself:

…fever dreams are really much more interesting than the usual frustration dreams I seem to have.  Almost as good as having a life.

I have just awakened at an ungodly hour on a damp pillow with my head dripping perspiration.  Abdominal cramps in no time manifest as a sudden, but most fortunately brief, dose of the squitters.  My first thought was that the turkey sausage rolls I made for Don’s birthday morning tea, may well have been laced with Clostridium perfringens, but on thinking it over I believe (and hope) it may have been the ready-made baby spinach and egg salad I bought from Woollies the day before yesterday.  I will find out later today when I learn if anyone else at work has been sick.  I hope not.

The ignominy of a health inspector giving his colleagues food poisoning!

But that is not why I am seated at my laptop in the wee small hours blogging.  I sat down to report my dream.

My fevered brain caused me to have the most amazing and vivid musical nightmare which is now, unfortunately, fading even as I try to recall it.   Did I really dream it, or did I just dream I did?

In my sleep it seems have just composed and performed a musical version of the Scottish play.  You know the one I mean.

In my dream I watched/performed the play from the opening scenes with the three witches,

When shall we three meet again, In thunder, lightning or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won. That will be ere the set of sun. Where the place? Upon the heath. There to meet with Macbeth

through the fair and foul  echoes, to the witches’ prophesies, the murders and ghostly meals, right up to where Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane and Macduff’  tunefully revealed that he was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped.

Occasionally, in my dream, I had to take a step back for a moment and admire my own talent, and the brilliance of what I was remembering/performing/dreaming.  It was as if I was in a lucid dream, aware that I was dreaming, because I kept congratulating myself on my memory, and on my particularly fine adaption of Shakespeare’s words and their clever marriage to the music.  I was most impressed too by the imagined dream performance of Lady Macbeth, as portrayed by Diana Rigg who happened to be black (and looked a bit like my ex).

Stand not upon the order of thy going, but go at once!

and

Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, Oh, Oh!

Wash your hands. Put on your nightgown. Look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on ’s grave

To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.

To bed, to bed, to bed!

My own astonishing virtuosity (in my dream) in fitting words to music had me feeling quite pleased with myself.

Whence is that knocking?
How is’t with me, when every noise appalls me?
What hands are here? Hah! They pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red

and

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o’ th’ other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There’s no such thing.

I sang these parts!

Or I dreamed I did.

For a time as I sat on the loo afterwards, the tune fadingly wove through my head of the astoundingly poignant soliloquy;

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.

It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

I usually sleep with music playing quietly in the background.  On the computer I have my music collection cycling through just over 11,000 MP3 tracks at all times.  When I awoke the Rolling Stones album  Let it Bleed was playing and I think it contributed to the soundtrack of my dream.

Sweeney Todd showed that a musical does not have to be light and fluffy.  The idea of a musical Macbeth is quite intriguing.  Could it be done?  Maybe.  Probably not by me.

For now I am heading back to bed to get some sleep

Macbeth does murder sleep’, the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care,

before another day at work.  Perhaps to dream another musical.  Hamlet?

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About Alan

Alone in a sea of spinifex.
This entry was posted in Art, Autobiography, Books, Communication and language, Drama, Folklore, Food and drink, Health and wellness, Life, don't talk to me about life!, Lifestyle, Music, Non-Events, Philosophy and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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