I imagine that would be very hot. Did I do that right? Did I win this imagination? Because I'm already sweaty when I do my really awesome dances to begin with, and I'm guessing that I'd be even sweatier if I had to do it in front of all those suns in the field that you seem to think I know.
I get the feeling that Yoko Ono gets to sleep a lot more than I do. When your advice is always "Bored with life? Go to sleep and pretend things are better!" it suggests a lack of urgency in your real life, like you have no actual concerns. And normal people -- people who didn't have sex with Beatles when they were younger -- have all sorts of real-life concerns to deal with. Jobs and bills and occasionally being awake, and so forth.
Also, wouldn't this be more effective if I was dancing with and complimenting people in real life? Isn't that objectively more meaningful? Telling a person that I've subconsciously projected in my dream how beautiful they are is like telling my brain how beautiful it is, and I don't need to do that. My brain already knows, baby, we've been tag-teaming dreams since way back. It just seems like I'd have more of an impact if I told people in real life that they were beautiful, but you want me to do it in my dreams, which ... Hey. Is Yoko Ono trying to Inception me?!
TUESDAY: Tape Recording Things
Yoko's way into sending me out on missions to record things. I thought at first that it might be a Zen thing, some kind of ancient, spiritual lesson, like I'd go out to record something that was unrecordable, and in the silence I'd discover something about myself.
When I tried to record the lake freezing, for example, I realized in the silence that all I really wanted was the hot chocolate that Yoko and I promised myself. Then I recorded even longer, and I came to another discovery: I didn't even have to sit outside at a lake all night if I wanted to drink it, and that lakes don't make sounds when they freeze, and that I live in California where lakes don't freeze anyway, and that I don't have time to stare at a lake waiting for miracles, because my brain's not made of monkey shit. Then I drove home and drank hot chocolate. (That's kinda Zen, right?)