"We need you to be the conductor for this one," said the nice young man in last night's dream, opening the dog-eared book of sheet music to a page I couldn't make out.
"Okay," I said, fearing to disappoint. He nodded and went away.
Naturally, the totally sensible thing to do was find the head flutist and discuss this with her.
Because this was a dream, intention was the same as execution, and I found myself sitting in the corner with a silver-gowned lady as if we were a pair of schoolgirls.
"So I'm interested to know what you're looking for in a conductor," I said. "The relationship between musician and conductor can take any number of forms. What would work best for you in terms of interpretation, of feeling the piece..."
The flute player smiled at me. "Oh, just keep me sticky."
In the dream, this meant "make me stick to the beat."
I froze.
And then...then I ran.
Not from. But to.
#
He had one of his crazier expressions on his face, but not any of the angry ones; more like lost-little-boy. He was sitting on the floor reciting poetry to himself. This was not crazy-dream-stuff; this is how my father always is.
I waved the sheet music in his face. "You have to conduct the orchestra! Third number! Right here! This thing!"
Some parents get annoyed if their kids interrupt them; he's never been like that. He just looked worried that he wouldn't be able to catch up with the situation fast enough.
"The third number! They told me I had to conduct it, and fine, you know, if all I had to do was wave my arms and emote. But then the flute player told me I actually had to keep the beat for her. Well, I can't do that. But you, you've got a metronome inside you."
He nodded. "Okay. How long until I'm on?"
Too long for the dream. It faded away, so I never got to see how he did.
