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Tuesday, Jun. 25, 2002 / 11:41 a.m. ~A Long and Satisfying Dream � Realization Requires Visualization~ Not all obsessions turn into dreams. Stare at an image all day and see if you dream about it in sleeping. It�s not to be expected, it cannot be counted upon. One can hope, one can write it all down, make a list at the New Moon, and on the Full Moon is it come to fruition? It began with a golf tournament, was it for celebrities? And it was at night, we had to follow ruts in the ground created by vehicles. I spotted his golf ball, white and nearly glowing, on the ground. You�ll hit from here, but how will you even find the green? This is impossible in the dark, lights from far away casting shadows. A day-glo ball would have made more sense. Who was I with? Who was he? Was I going to play as well? Then a documentary on television. Moby�s boyhood home, a row house, and was it in Canada? He�s from Connecticut. I know this. Some fan had found his house, a fire was set by accident, and the whole town had been ablaze with it, row house after row house caught, old wood like kindling. Right there on TV, this whole town on fire (I can figure this out so far, all of it � Moby�s email address leaking out, the whole West on fire, it�s on the news every night�), and a big boat of a car, an old Cadillac or something, riding down the Main Street, shooting water out the window, but I don�t see a hose. A spray of water trying to keep the fire from spreading to the buildings not yet part of the conflagration. A town so small they don�t even have a fire truck. Then a loft apartment, before a party. We�re early. Built-in bookcases, so many books, a TV, not too large, a big black leather lounger, a big comfy chair, and I�m saying how nice it is, and he�s asking do I like it? Do we like it? It�s my apartment, he says. �He� is Moby. Is that the chair?, we�re asking, as if we�ve read about this nice black leather chair, and how comfy it is, and one goes and sits in it. There are two though. One is obviously the chair we feel we know. We can tell right away. I�m playing it all very cool so far. Looking at all the books, commenting on how many there are, how wonderful it is, how I love a room with books all around, lining the walls, and yes, he likes them too (in reality, I�ve seen photos of his loft in Manhattan, and there are not bookcases, it�s very spare, not much furniture, wooden walls I think, hidden cabinets? � Ahhhh� but I looked through my book on Edward Gorey last night, remarked silently on the photos of his study, all the books, so many books�) - I found myself wanting to go to them, to read the titles, learn about him from his choices, what he�s stocked on his shelves. I am wondering if there�s dust � he often writes of cleaning, mopping, and washing windows, and I know he likes to clean � and there is. Suddenly I�m comforted to see a layer of it, a clean line where a book has been pulled off a shelf, here and there. (I know why this was in the dream too, it�s obvious � I see my own layer of dust daily), and he�s sitting back on a chair. Next scene is a party, because that is why we�re here. For a party. But we are the special guests. �Kramer� is there (he�s with us), from �Seinfeld�, wearing a loud shirt, Hawaiian? He is on his own, going where he pleases, and I am still playing it cool, observing, waiting, hoping, confident, assured, this is going where I want it to. And Moby�s in the kitchen, it�s open, open walls surrounding it, people can see in, lean in, around a corner or through a wall. Suddenly, yes quite suddenly, it�s Britney Spears� loft and I am hanging out with her while she takes tickets by the door, a line of people arriving to go to the Club downstairs. She has a nightclub downstairs in her loft (�Kramer� has gone down there�). What loft even HAS a downstairs? Usually there is an upstairs. I know, I know� I�m asking her how she likes it, her celebrity, all these people, and I am so attracted to her, and this is my brain working overtime, this is elements of reality all skewed, all rearranged, bits of Comfort Me With Apples, Ruth Reichl�s journalistic yet surreptitious �interview� of the Chef who prepares the Chinese meal, confessing to a woman of falling in love with her, listening to �18�, thinking of him, reading his journal, knowing I�m going to see him in just weeks, it�s all of it, only different, arranged and rearranged into a Play of sorts, whilst sleeping. I leave her, Britney, she is not why I�m there, and there is Moby in the kitchen, a spray bottle in one hand, spraying the outside of the refrigerator, cleaning as he talks (!!) to someone, he�s wearing that red shirt he wore on Dennis Miller�s show, and I�m still observing, not being too boisterous, holding back (as I wrote last night, not being me, holding back, taking Tattodnanny�s survey, guessing at the contents of her refrigerator). And he turns to me, he�s in the doorway to the kitchen, he must know I�m there for him, only for him, he asks me to stay. After. To stay the night. I�m not believing this, I�m asking him to repeat himself, and there are many people milling about, I�m not sure the words I hear are accurate, his voice is soft, quiet, questioning. �You think I�m easy?�, I ask. I think he answers �Yes�, and my eyes grow wide, more disbelief, this is crazy (Mark asking me to �make out�), but I know what I want, I know this is what I wanted, of course, how could I leave, he chose me, there is something going on between us, all this unspoken communication, amidst all these people, just for one night, but how could I say No? I�m on his bed, a king sized bed, and at times it�s a waterbed. (temporary distraction�I just took a phone call, 9:37 a.m., cubicle time, after all, and I was updating an address and a phone number for someone in Philadelphia� listening to his voice, thinking how nice it was, how I wanted to ask if he�s single, how flirtatious I felt suddenly, and after entering his phone number I asked if he had a new phone number� he was silent and I looked at the computer to see where I�d just typed it� I laughed, couldn�t believe it, couldn�t believe I�d just said that, promised I had entered it correctly, all of it, read it back, it�s very funny, really) So, yes, on his bed, watching TV, and it�s that documentary again, about him, about that fire that destroyed that entire little town � I�m hanging out, I�m waiting, playing it all by ear (my survey � do you �plan� or �play it by ear�?), and I look over at a bunkbed on my left � Matthew McConaghey (I have NO idea how to spell his name) is in bed with a man, a fellow reveler, and I am not surprised, but when I look again it�s Moby, by himself, and I tell him to join me, something along the lines of �Come here��, and he does, crawls over me, and I ask which side he sleeps on, it�s the other side, and I wonder if he is only saying that to make me happy, so I don�t feel I have to move. He�s next to me on the bed, and I pull him close to me, put my arm around him, pull his head to chest (like in �Amelie�??), we�re wearing clothes, it�s not sexual, not yet, I just want to hold onto him, and he seems so shy. It was exactly what I wanted, I was going to stay, and it would only be one night, but he wanted me there, he�d asked me to stay, and when the party was over and the drunken Matthew McConaghey and others had left it was just us in his huge bed, water or not, and we would sleep together. Determined to leave a lasting impression, determined he would want to see me again, after the one night, but knowing that the one night was all I could hope for and to have it realized was better than anything else. I awoke naturally, right at that moment, feeling all of that, playing it over in my head, not wanting to forget any of it, desperate to write it all down, knowing I�d wait until I got to work, here, to write in Word, to type it, not use a pen, not in my paper journal, all sloppy and illegible, to preserve it in my diary � upload this later. Listening to �18� again. When �Another Woman� plays out, I hit the �replay� button. I hear it over and over � I love this song. I did it yesterday, how many times did I hear it in a row? Six? More? It�s my fantasy, nothing wrong with it. I think about him, I read his journal, I�ve stopped posting to the boards, that�s not my scene, I�m not one of them� or am I?? What makes me any different from any other groupie? The fact that I won�t act on this? The fact that I won�t try to get backstage? Won�t make sure I don�t leave without at least a hug? A whisper in his ear�? It�s okay. He�s made himself so accessible, as I told Mark. He is communicating directly with his fans, he hasn�t placed himself on a pedestal, he is only now, just now, becoming so widely known for who he is, not just the music. Before, it was the music � even in the trailer for �Ali� we saw on Sunday, �Bodyrock� played, �Moby!�, I whispered, �It�s �Bodyrock�!!� � it was everywhere, every song from �Play� sold commercially, just so it would be heard, all his music. Now it�s him, who is he, what is he like, it wants to be known, people who never knew him now want to, you get a taste and you only want more. Touring with Bowie, that�s fucking huge! Associate yourself with someone that huge, your own personal musical hero, a big influence, and you�re everywhere now, but it�s still just you, shy, unassuming, unpretentious, admitted geek you. And this is so endearing, this is so captivating, this is so consuming, this compassionate, caring, meticulous, pacifistic, loving, insecure, multi-faceted incredible you. The temptation is to excuse myself, to offer up explanations, to constantly backpedal and remind that it�s only fantasy and it�s healthy, it�s all okay, no worries, no one is getting hurt, no one will, but why the self consciousness? Remember Rosie O�Donnell and her Tom Cruise fixation? And she�s gay! I always knew she is gay. Who didn�t? Imagine now, how many women have picked up TIME, or Entertainment Weekly, pasted Tom�s picture somewhere near and dear, gone to bed wishing they could dream a dream like I had about Moby? One cannot plan to have a dream, in my experience. I didn�t expect it, I didn�t go to bed with him on my mind. I was tired, no, I was exhausted, I was in pain. I had a weird day, nothing was right. So I dreamed what I wanted, without knowing I could. No harm in that. It felt really good, that�s all. I may be alone in this, but I really like �Jam For the Ladies� too. I downloaded it to Branford�s laptop and we played it over and over � he liked it too� I think it feels good to have this �crush�. And no, it doesn�t feel like I�ll be crushed. It feels like pure fantasy, so nothing can go wrong. No reality can quash the dream, nothing can be ruined. There are no idiosyncrasies to spoil my image of him. I get to know only the good, only what he�d have anyone know, and I can take it from there, embellish to my liking. It�s easier. It�s neater. No muss, no fuss. It�s all good. But� is it comforting to know, from reading the message boards at Moby�s site, that I am not alone in feeling so intensely about him? Yes. His effect is palpable. It�s the music, the lyrics, the humility, the passion, compassion, caring, the words. I am not alone in this. If it means I�d have to queue up, that�s fine, because I prefer the fantasy, let them try, I can sit back and dream it any way I want, it seems. Cost of the War in Iraq
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