Occasionally dreams don’t make any sense, no matter how hard you think about them. This one has me puzzled. Music in general is important to me, but beyond that, I can’t see any semblance to my life. I guess I thought about producing a short movie about Robert Johnson once; it wasn’t very serious. It seems appropriate here, anyway.
I was in Robert Plant‘s body. I entered a large room with hundreds of rock musicians, sitting at folding tables and facing each other through dividers. I sat across from a guitarist. He wasn’t familiar to me, a relatively obscure musician popular on the local scene. We talked, and I asked what we were doing here. Everybody in the room turned to the main table, raising their hands. They wanted an answer, too. It was the early development of a movie. I started to stand, saying “maybe it’s Ron Wood‘s biography.” I laughed hysterically, falling to the floor.
