I was in a boat with John, and we were making a trip upriver. The river was small and full of algae and very swamplike where we were; the boat was this cool high-tech thing made of carbon-fiber rods with a hull made of some carbon-fiber/mylar composite. We capsized-- somehow we had to in the dream-- but the river was shallow enough that we could walk on the bottom and we managed to get the boat and all the equipment to the first lock.
The lockmeister wasn't there, and we ended up doing some exploring of the somewhat rustic camp, very log-cabin-ish. Somehow we discovered that the camp was hugely politicized and wouldn't let us through if we were Raconteurs, which had an almost gangland context here. Earlier, I had been shot by a young Al Pacino, so I was recovering from gunshot wounds, or at least that was the story. I think I had shot Al Pacino in the head, and somehow either become him or been treated by emergency paramedics to restore my blood with some kind of fluid (cold water?) because I had lost so much blood.
The clues are all there. It was a dream about filmmaking.
But for some odd reason, I awoke with a sense of love lost, not the future-echo of referred emotional pain, but a fresh cut of sadness. No idea where that came from.