I dreamt this morning that I was sitting with friends in a stadium so huge that when I looked across the way I noted the rows on the other side descending so far down that I could not see the bottom and rising so high into the sky that they vanished into a mist. An announcer's voice buzzed inside my head to tell me that attendance today exceeded 800 million people, which my mind accepted as a possible number in whatever world this dream was set. The voice promised us all a great show that day, and warned that if we wanted to pick up refreshments or go to the bathroom, we'd better do it right then, because the event was starting soon and we wouldn't want to miss any of the action.

I stepped into the hallway behind me, not pausing to think what a crowd of 800 million people getting popcorns and sodas would be like. Only once I'd entered it, the hallway wasn't that of a stadium, but rather that of a hospital. And I was suddenly dressed all in white, like an orderly. I had a picture ID clipped to my shirt, and when I flipped it up to peer at it saw that it was indeed my picture. I accepted the scene change, but also kept hunting for the refreshment stand and the restroom. Wouldn't want to miss the show!

I wandered endless hallways and eventually came to a break room of some kind in which patients were seated at tables, some playing dominos, others watching the small TV that hung from the ceiling. And who should be sitting at one table but writer Gregory Feeley, performing the role of a patient advocate. He was telling an old man about his complicated insurance options. As I passed their table, Greg looked at me curiously, wondering how I had gotten there, but did not pause in his explanation to ask. We acknowledged each other with nods only, and as I moved back out into the hallway, I could hear him continuing on with his advice, the patter of his very competent spiel unbroken.

I woke while still wandering the halls, without ever finding that refreshment stand, and without ever learning what event could be so popular as to draw 800 million people to one location.

Tom Disch visited me in my sleep this morning. There was no sense of surprise in the dream, by which I mean there was no awareness that in real life he was dead, and that such an encounter would from now on be impossible.

We were sitting at a picnic table, much as we were during my moving one-on-one conference back at Clarion in 1979, which I shared about earlier here. We were in the backyard, not of my current house, but of the one I lived in from 1989 through 2004.

We were having a pleasant conversation, about which I'm sorry to say I remember none of the details. (That's unfortunately often the way with dreams; the stuff I most want to remember fades upon waking.) But I do remember the twinkle in his eye, which was there during our whole chat, a twinkle which so many of you have mentioned in your posts in the days since his death.

In the midst of all this, it suddenly occurred to me that I was being a poor host. He had traveled so far, and I hadn't offered him anything to eat or drink. So I apologized, and asked what I could get him. He said that he only wanted juice, so I went inside to get him some, filling a glass with cold orange juice from the fridge.

By the time I came back outside, glass in hand, he was gone.

And then I woke up, missing him.

I dreamt this morning that I had wandered into a huge auditorium in which all the chairs were arranged in a circle, planetarium style. In the center of the room, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas were sitting in a circular pit, which, at the proper time, would be covered by a dome, onto which at the right time they'd project one of their favorite films.

They said they were going to screen Lassiter, a title which in the dream meant nothing to me, but which upon waking I see is a 1984 movie starring Tom Selleck. I've never seen it, but based on reading about it, I can't imagine it being anyone's favorite film. In the dream, however, that's exactly what Spielberg and Lucas were going to show us, only they never explained why, and I never questioned their choice.

A handsome man was sitting on the lip of the pit, dangling his feet. As I looked at him, I somehow knew he was an actor, but I couldn't quite recognize him, perhaps because his features kept morphing.

"You're George Peppard, aren't you?" I asked, but as soon as I did, his face changed, and he shook his head.

"Oh, I see, you're Dirk Benedict," I said, and for a moment he was, but then that face, too, was gone.

Then I saw that he was really Mark Hamill. This time, when I called him out, the face remained, and he sighed, shrugged with "you got me" body language, and asked me "What do you want to know?" in a suffering tone, as if he was weary of public interactions. When I told him that I didn't need anything from him, he seemed surprised.

But then, as eerie music welled up in the background, I told him, in a threatening tone of voice, that I wanted him to give me one fact that no one else knew, and as I started walking closer, he screamed and fell to the ground, because it suddenly became apparent that in the dream I was a collector, though not of books or DVDs or autographs, but of information that could be mine alone, and that once I got that one never-before-shared fact from him, he would have to die, so that he could never give it away to anyone else.

And then I woke and scribbled this all down.

I sense a story seed in the concept of such a collector ...

I had a dream this morning in which I was in an unnamed, unidentifiable foreign country. I was teamed with Donald O'Connor, who bore the same physical appearance as he did in Singing in the Rain, and Robert Silverberg, who looked exactly like he does today.

We were in a marketplace, similar to what you'd see in a film like Casablanca. The three of us were circled around a life-sized, hollow cardboard mock-up of a car. For some reason that never became completely clear, it was very important that we convince someone who was about to show up that this was a real, functional car. So I crouched down and hid behind a rear tire (a cardboard rear tire), while Donald and Bob showed off the car and I made automobile noises as best as I could.

I'm no Mel Blanc, so unfortunately, my attempt was rather pathetic and I wasn't very successful in my part of this ruse. Luckily, I woke before I discovered what would happen if we failed.

I dreamt this morning that I was at Readercon, walking down a hallway toward the hotel restaurant. I have no idea whether it was time for lunch or dinner. When I stepped through the entranceway, all of the tables were occupied, and the joint was jumping. I surveyed the room in search of a table of friendly faces into which I could insert myself.

As I checked out the restaurant, I realized that I knew everyone there, which wasn't so unusual, at least not for a Readercon. But what was unusual was that I saw Eric M. Van sitting at one table as part of a group, and then I also saw Eric M. Van sitting at the next table with a different party, and then at the next table as well!

And the next, and the next, and the next ...

In fact, there wasn't a table without one of him. There were dozens of Eric M. Vans scattered throughout the restaurant, each one taking part in a lively conversation.

How did he do that?, I wondered. In my dream state, I didn't think this impossible. I was just ... curious.

As I stood there, unable to decide at which table I wanted to try to squeeze in, I woke. I guess I won't get to have a meal at Readercon until Readercon itself.

I had a dream this morning in which I was at a water park, navigating an intricate attraction built of many connected tunnels, slides, and bridges. Sometimes, I'd be swept along to a section which had collapsed, and have to climb along exposed girders from one area to another, rather than simply be wafted forward by the rushing water.

It seemed as if there were too many of these breaks for me to actually ever make it to the end of the ride, so at one point I decided to climb back to the beginning. That proved to be too treacherous, though, so I soon gave that up and let the water carry me on. Which it did, this time with no further interruptions, and I was eventually washed all the way to the ride's end.

When I got there, I discovered that some people I knew were waiting for me. tim_pratt was there, along with his wife, Heather Shaw, and their new baby, River. I realized that I was wearing a cowboy hat, which had something to do with the water park, because it suddenly seemed that I worked there, and that the hat was part of my uniform. People were bringing their kids over to have their pictures taken with those of us wearing hats, which makes no sense now but seemed to make sense when I was asleep.

Pictures taken, I woke up, and scribbled this down.

I had a dream this morning in which I was wandering an unidentified convention, though it had to be a Worldcon somewhere due to the size of the crowds. I passed a room in which people were glued to a marathon of episodes from the Swamp Thing TV show, and then came upon the con suite, which contained lots of neon and included its own pizza oven.

I began to snap pictures of the attendees there. Most of them where unfamiliar faces, but I was being a completist about it. When I went to photograph at the table at which Connie Willis sat, I heard a disconcerting popping sound, and looked at my camera, only to see that the flash was sticking out like the bouncing head from a sprung jack-in-the-box. Oh, great, I thought, the con is just beginning, and here I am without a working camera.

Then, from out of nowhere, who should pop up but bobhowe, who proceeds to pull out many small tools (it looks to me as if he travels with a lock-picking kit), examine the camera, and tell me exactly what to do to fix it.

What I'd like to know is—just when and why did my subconscious decide that bobhowe was its symbol of competency?

Two relevant dreams to relate this morning.

In the first, I was in the world of Boston Legal. I was Denny Crane (William Shatner) and I was hanging out with Alan Shore (James Spader). We were in a montage of the two of us acting wacky in different costumes, i.e. naval uniforms, cheerleader outfits, etc. In the last scene, the only one of any length, I was hunched over, snapping my fingers, and moving through an office hallway while wearing a black leather jacket and singing "When You're a Jet" from West Side Story. Alan Shore was watching me suspiciously, only to finally join in halfheartedly. After he did so, I berated him for not committing himself to it. "Don't ham it up, play it for real," I growled at him. At least that's what I scribbled down on my notepad that I'd said, when I woke immediately after that, humming the song.

In the second dream, I was being visited by the late John Buscema, the Marvel Comics artist probably best known for his work on Silver Surfer and Conan the Barbarian. He and his wife were staying overnight with us, though not in my current real-life house, one more like my previous house in Maryland, since we were chatting in a wood-paneled finished basement. And yet, when I was coming up with things we could all do that day, I suggested a trip to the Charles Town Racetrack, which is near where I live now. John said that he wasn't into horse racing, so I kept tossing out other possibilities. (Whether he was or wasn't in real life, I have no idea, though there were plenty of OTB fanatics in the Marvel Bullpen, Mike Esposito among them.) As we talked, I was very conscious of not pulling out my collection of original artwork to show him, because I didn't want him thinking that I was indirectly trying to get him to give me artwork. I woke with us still trying to figure out how to spend the afternoon.

No idea where either of these dreams came from, though I do watch Boston Legal and did know John Buscema (though not well enough that he ever visited my home).

I had a dream this morning in which I was at Readercon, sitting in one corner of a boisterous con suite, catching up with Resa Nelson. I've known Resa for more than 20 years, but these days we tend to only see each other face to face once a year at that convention, which is coming up in two months, so it made sense that she would appear in one of my dreams.

Then into the con suite comes, of all people, my mother, who plops down in a chair next to us. She's out of breath from playing tourist during the day, and tells me that she just wanted to check how I was doing. Her visitation in my dream also makes sense (even though she's never attended a convention in real life) considering that yesterday was Mother's Day, after all.

But then comes the part that doesn't make much sense, at least not now, in daylight, though it made perfect sense in dream. Kenneth, the NBC page from the TV series 30 Rock, shows up at the party, and makes a beeline for me. He pulls me away from friends and family, and asks me for a favor. I don't find his presence odd, perhaps because if he were a real person rather than just a fictional character, the fact that he's an NBC page would mean that technically we worked for the same company, since NBC and SCI FI are both part of the same conglomerate.

Kenneth asks if he can borrow my assault rifle. Strangely, nothing seems out of place about his request, even though in real life I don't own one (though I do own a 12 gauge shotgun). In the dream, I just happen to have that assault rifle with me, and hand it over to him, loading it for him before I do so. Again, in the dream, this seems natural. Kenneth wanders off happy, his usual goofy self, giving no hint as to why he needed the weapon. As soon as he was gone, I woke up.

I'm not entirely sure what all this means, but if you'll be attending Readercon this year, you'd better watch out for Kenneth!

I had two comics-related dreams this morning. I'm not sure why, as those dreams are usually sparked by something that happened in real life, such as a conversation with someone I used to know in the old days, or discovering the news of the death of a friend. (As opposed to my SF-related dreams, which seem to pop up unbidden, as anyone who follows this blog already knows). Whatever the reason, they seemed interesting to me, which means that now you're going to have to suffer.

In the first dream, I was on a panel about mainstream coverage of the history of comics. I was with others behind a table up on a stage looking down at the audience. Also in the dream were Jim Warren (former publisher of Creepy, Eerie, and Famous Monsters of Filmland), Jim Steranko (the groundbreaking artist of Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the late '60s and early '70s), and John Verpoorten (Production Manager of Marvel Comics when I was on staff there from the mid- to late '70s). Oddly, we were not the ages any of us could have possibly been at the same time in reality. Warren was the age he would have attained in real life now, Steranko was the age he had been in the mid-'70s, and Verpoorten was the age he would have been in the late '60s, a look I only know from photographs of him.

I spoke on the reasons why stories about comics in the mass media are so often flawed. This is what I'd said, which I scribbled down immediately upon waking: "The person who can get it done can only get it done wrong; the person who could get it done right can't get it done at all." Usually, the statements I make in dreams that seem to make sense in sleep make no sense in the light of day, but this one seems to have some truth to it. What I meant by this was that most writers either have the connections to get the assignment or the background knowledge, but not both.

As the panel broke up, I looked down and found a wallet. It turned out to be Steranko's. After I returned it, I looked down again and found another wallet. This time, it was Verpoorten's. I returned that one as well. Then I looked down to find yet another wallet, but before I could return it, I woke up.

In the second comics-related dream this morning, I was hanging out with Paul Levitz (currently the president and publisher of DC Comics) in a Brooklyn apartment I'd lived in during the late '60s, a place Paul had never visited in real life. We were poring over old comics that featured the Legion of Superheroes in their first appearances. Paul looked the way he had when I'd first met him at comic conventions in the early '70s. I told him that I figured the Legion was his favorite series. (He did end up writing it, after all.) I also said that even though as a kid I'd been a Marvel fan rather than a DC fan, I always had a soft spot for the Legion.

Then the dream jumped to now. I was paging through a Flash comic, one consisting entirely of many consecutive full-page splashes and double-page spreads, showing him accelerating and and continuing to get faster and faster and faster. The book (which looked nothing like any real-world issue of the Flash) had been drawn by Ross Andru and Mike Esposito. I called over Irene (my wife, remember?) to show her the book, but I woke before I could share it with her.

Such is my dream life. (Or at least the part you get to hear about.)

I had a dream early this morning in which I was hanging out with shunn and Wil McCarthy on the way to the Denver WorldCon. We'd bumped into each other at some interim airport at which we were changing planes. Our conversation was so interesting that at one point I realized I was about to miss my flight, and so I was forced to run for my gate. As I raced, two things caused me to wonder.

First, I passed a healthy Jerry Orbach, that song-and-dance man who became a star of Law & Order, which confused me, because I thought, "Isn't he dead?" (In the waking world, he is.) And then, as I continued running, I got to thinking—why would I bump into Wil at an airport on the way to Denver? Doesn't he live in Colorado? (In the waking world, he does.)

Once I got to my gate, I learned that I still had plenty of time, so I sat and opened my mail, which included cards (that I never got out of their envelopes, so I never learned the occasion—Happy Birthday? Congratulations? Get Well?)—or who they were from, and copies of (gulp!) Reader's Digest (which in the real world I only ever flip through when the line at the supermarket check-out aisle is moving too slowly). I woke up before I could board the plane.

Later that morning, I had a second SF-related dream (and can recall three other dreams that had nothing to do with writers or writing). I was attending a reunion of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer's Workshop—one made up not just of my year, but of all years. While there, I bumped into Cory Doctorow. We caught up for awhile, and then I moved on to look for other familiar faces. And strangely, though the public areas of the building were packed, I recognized no one else from my year or any other year.

I was given a pamphlet that contained photos of all other graduates, but I could recognize no faces there either. In the dream, I wasn't perturbed by this, just found it odd and interesting, since from my years attending cons I figured I should be able to recognize graduates from almost every year of Clarion. I woke while flipping through the pamphlet, which was laid out like a high-school yearbook.

I dreamed last night that I was in the large waiting room of a train station sitting with my father. I had no idea why we were there or where we were going. I didn't know whether both of us or just one of us would be traveling, and if only one of us, which one.

As we waited and chatted (I can remember nothing of our conversation), I looked across the room and through the crowd saw Connie Willis standing and talking with three or four other women of a similar age and type. I got up from my Dad and walked over to her to say hello.

As Connie and I talked, I pointed my Dad out to her. I waved at him, but he couldn't seem to make me out from across the room, and so he didn't wave back.

I woke before the dream progressed any further.

I dreamed this morning that I was in a restaurant taking part in a chicken-eating contest with Gardner Dozois. Susan Casper and John Kessel watched on. Unfortunately, the results of our match were inconclusive, because I woke before we arrived at a winner.

In the face of all the dreams I've shared with you here, you may ask yourself—does this guy dream of anything else besides hanging out with his publishing friends? Don't worry. I promise you that I do. I'm a frequent dreamer, and usually remember 3-5 dreams per night. But I only choose to inflict upon you the dreams that seem relevant.

If I shared all of my dreams, you'd really be in trouble!

I dreamed this morning that I was visiting a group of people who, though outwardly friendly, turned out to be part of an extreme religious cult. When I tried to go home after dinner, I was prevented from leaving. Though I managed to sneak away within the compound and make a phone call for help, whenever I tried to speak, traffic would mysteriously roar by, drowning out my pleas.

When rescue finally arrives and I leap into the car that has come to take me away, who should be inside but bobhowe, maryturzillo, and Resa Nelson, all Clarion classmates (of each other, not of me)!

Thanks for breaking me out of there, guys!

Tucked into my bed here in Salt Lake City, I dreamed that I was wandering a convention, and heard the names of other writers being called, again and again, with no response, in a manner much like the way in which Ben Stein took attendance in Ferris Beuller's Day Off. The voice echoing through the halls belonged to Barry Malzberg.

And then I heard him call my name. Unlike those other writers (and alas, no, now that I'm awake, I no longer remember who they were), I answered the call, and went into a conference room, and there was Barry, standing in the front of an audience, dressed like Ko-Ko from The Mikado. In the dream, I saw nothing strange about this at all. And I said to him, "Barry, you know that all you ever need to do is call my name three times and I'll be there." (Which was odd to be saying, since I'd showed up on his first call.)

He then proceeded to ask me a question as if I was a game show participant. I can no longer remember the exact question, only that it had to do with Groucho Marx (who in the dream I remembered having heard sing "Willow, tit-willow" sometime previously), and in answer to that question I was going to say, "Margaret Dumont," but before I spoke I suddenly knew that would be the wrong answer, and as I struggled to think of the right one, I woke.

I had a long phone conversation with Barry last week and it was nothing like that, so though this dream was entertaining to me, it makes no more sense than any of the earlier dreams I've shared with you here.

Now a dream in which Lee and Nick and me had killed Gary Braunbeck and dumped his body out back in the hotel parking lot—well, after the events of last night, that I would have understood!

I dreamt last night that I was editing and publishing a boutique magazine such as Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet or Electric Velocipede, and was witness to a conversation between Allen Steele and Harlan Ellison.

Allen saying that, no, Harlan couldn't have John Kessel's newest story for whatever project Harlan was working on, because John had already promised that story to me. Not sure why it was up to Allen to be delivering the news rather than John himself, but John didn't appear in the dream. I turned to Ellen Datlow, who was in the dream, and bragged about the coup.

Then I woke up.

I dreamt last night that I was wandering a science-fiction convention, and it must have been a big one, because all of the usual suspects were there. As I walked back from a lunch with Jack Dann, along the way we bumped into Connie Willis, John Kessel, Adam-Troy Castro, Melissa Anna Singer, Sheila Williams, and many others. There was lots of loud conversation and much picture-taking.

The only odd thing about the dream was that when I ran into Marc Scott Zicree, he didn't appear as his usual clean-cut self. Instead, he had long, wild hair, as if he hadn't cut it in years, and he was dressed like a stereotypical '60s hippie. We joked about how much he had changed since I'd last seen him, and I asked him where he'd stashed his VW van with flowers painted on the side.

Now why did my subconscious do that to a nice guy like Marc?

I had a dream last night in which I had been summoned to see Lord of the Rings director Peter Jackson, but had no idea why. I went to his hotel, at which I found him surrounded by his minions, some of whom were massaging his feet. He had me sit on a couch opposite him, and instructed two of his helpers to remove my shoes and massage my feet as well. While we sat there, we talked about science fiction and fantasy. I thought, as I looked at him over the foot massagers, this is a little weird, but hey, it's Peter Jackson!

Then he got to the real purpose of his invitation. It had absolutely nothing to do with me—he'd been trying to reach one of my writers, Eric Baker, a longtime friend whose fiction and non-fiction I've been publishing as far back as the Science Fiction Age days, and who I'd met long before that. Jackson said that the phone and e-mail information he had for Eric didn't work, and he hoped I had better and more recent info, because he really needed to get in touch with him.

So I pulled out my BlackBerry and searched for Eric's entry in my address book, but for some reason, no matter how I typed in his name, I couldn't find it. Other friends and writers kept popping up, but Jackson didn't want them, only Eric, and there was no Eric. I woke still looking, with Jackson being very disappointed, and me being disappointed I was disappointing him.

Sorry, Eric—I guess this means Jackson won't be calling you about that gig!