Analyzing my Dreams: NBA/Jazz Improv

Last night I had this dream that I was an improv actress cheerleader for the NBA. This was a common practice; instead of cheerleaders, we were like clowns that did skits during the breaks in the game.

For some odd reason (perhaps because this was a dream), a lot of the skits were super, super gory—like, the makeup artists went wild with the fake-blood-and-burned-flesh look. This was my very first time doing improv for the NBA, but I didn't really know how much improv I would have to do, so I was feeling a little nervous.

I was herded into the makeup room where I was done up, and the makeup artist gave me my clues. “Eight. Ten. Twenty-four. Thirty-two. Fifty-six.”
8.

10.

24.

32.

56.

I repeated this over and over in my mind to remember this sequence of numbers because I knew someone would be asking me a question, and one of these numbers would be the answer. The makeup artist asked me if I could remember that, and we discussed the relationship between the numbers so I could remember them.

The girl next to me had just finished a skit and only had a few minutes between skits to have her injury makeup removed and makeup for the next skit put on.

Time was running out.

I quickly ran down the hall to the Temporary Props department where I was directed, and a man was already rushing out with a manilla envelope for me because the cue was up! We needed to be on! I snatched the envelope and ran out in my tennis shoes after the girl who would be my skit partner. She was way ahead of me, and I was pounding hard to catch up.

As soon as I stepped into the gym I pushed against the floor so hard with my feet—I had so much nervous energy—that I rocketed like 50 feet in the air and started to panic. I started falling down and oh, man, the floor was like right there, and smooth landing—yes!—and I ran to the edge of the court.

I started following my skit partner's lead. I was like a done up cheerleader-nurse with rosy cheeks. We started singing straight pitches to the players as they ran by in a line. I listened to the pitch my partner sang and would match it. I was all smiles and I raised my eyebrows a lot, and I was nervous, because I'm not really an actress.

Fin dream.

The Correlation to my Subconscious

Now and again, I enjoy interpreting my own dreams, and this is what I've come up with. This weekend the Black History Month Music Night and Poetry Jam is coming up, and I was invited to be the featured jazz singer of the night. And I'm a little nervous about it because a lot of it's improvisation. I mean I have my makeup—I bought a new top yesterday and I'm thinking about how to do my hair, and some of the pieces are there—the numbers, the lyrics, the combo (my skit partners).


But the thing is, I really don't know how much improvising I'll really have to do—it could be a lot, or it could be A LOT. With jazz, you just improvise, and that's what makes it exciting. There's a little bit of preparation, and a few pieces in place . . .

And then you run out on the court and see players and people you don't recognize, and your skit partners sing some note and you try to catch it and just go with it and just feel the feeling in the room, even when, inside, you're not really sure what's going on, or what you're doing, or how this story is going to end.

This, then, is one of the lamest endings to any short story or novel, as the critics will tell you:

“And then I woke up.”