the rix mix

It's one thing to dream about Frank Sinatra, much more freaky to dream that I am Frank Sinatra. For this dream, inventing a huge hotel/casino to wander around in, not in a city, with endless anonymous hallways, elevators with uniformed operators (do I tip them?), gift shops, strange magazine stands, even a big wedding reception in one of the banquet rooms. & I, Frank Sinatra, not even resembling Frank in my dream much less possessed of his voice, confidence, entourage or penthouse suite, wandering around after my show wondering where the hell my room is, & if I have a late or early checkout. & I constructed this edifice out of one visit six years ago to Caesar's in Atlantic City? Poet Jim Cohn suggested to me a while back that it would be interesting, possibly instructive, to talk with some of the dream inhabitants. But this requires a lucidity I didn't have last night. Because I couldn't believe I was who I seemed to be. Had I said to myself, in the dream,"OK, you're Frank, what would Frank do? Demand better accomodations! Crash the wedding! Smack a broad!" then it would have played out differently.