I read somewhere—I think it was in a newspaper commentary a year or so ago—that dreams are interesting only to those who have them. For this reason, the commentator argued, we needn’t tell others about our dreams because they’ll only be bored. For the most part, I agree with that.
In the wee hours of this morning, I dreamt I was in a band with Clarence Clemons. This is far-fetched on so many levels, not the least of which pertains to my complete lack of any musical talent. There was an inverted sense of time, because everyone in the band and in the audience knew that Clarence had died, or was about to die–everyone but the Big Man himself. Therefore, he didn’t know why everyone was crying. He just played that saxophone like there was no tomorrow. Which, as we sadly know, there wasn’t.
Even as I type this, I realize how silly my dream was, and even more inane to tell you about it. At the same time, it allowed me to have my own private memorial. As so many fans were, I was profoundly saddened by Clarence’s passing this past Saturday. As I told you in an earlier post, I saw Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band for the first time when I was 15 and many, many times after that. Clarence’s wailing sax is a pronounced constant within the sound track to half of my life.
Last night, in the closing minutes of the NBC Nightly News, Brian Williams held back tears after having visited the hallowed ground of The Stone Pony in Asbury Park, N.J. I cried the tears he held back.
Here’s to Clarence, who has left a Big Man’s hole in our world, and to Brian Williams, who told those who didn’t know Clarence about this lovable legend as well and as personally as any newsman has. Brian, I wish you had been on stage with us last night.
One of the favorite movies in our house is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Last night, it became my own personal dream sequence. If you know the movie, think through it with me, and I am betting you could conjure your own dream sequence featuring the characters of your holiday.
Word Nymph 