Dreams and the Past

A recurring theme is that the cat wakes up, gives herself a quick once-over, jumps off the bed, walks around it, humming to herself, and then finally plucks up the courage to ask to be let out. We take it in turns to do her bidding.

So this morning, after our little ritual, I found myself trying to get back to sleep. It took some time and it was only when I heard the dawn chorus that I realised that my little form of meditation wasn’t working. I did not start meditation classes last night as I realised that Steve Jobs did them and he’s now dead: if it can happen to him, it can happen to me.

Anyway, drastic action was a running neck warmer that I did not have to chase down in order to slip over the top part of my head. There is no perversion here, only the need to block out the light.

It worked and soon I was in the land of dreams.

A number came along like the big red busses that I often mistake them for. The last to arrive took me back to my home town. I was on a market, it was a big market that was being held on a Saturday, and I spotted somebody whom I thought I knew. Not able to hold back my enthusiasm for the encounter, one which hadn’t taken place for nearly thirty years, I ran up and greeted him. A face flushed with confusionlooked back at me.

To my surprise, my old friend had aged really well. In fact, he had not only aged well, he had multiplied. Around the stall on which he stood were also standing a number of others who looked remarkably like him, all in different stages of their lives. It turned out that the person who I thought was my old buddy was his son; there were two other sons as well, and two uncles. Even in dreams life gets complicated.

I was directed to where I could find him, but find him I did not. I found his wife and daughter and they were strangely silent too.

Having not made contact, the alarm sounded for me to wake. Over a cup of tea, I searched for any signs of my old acquaintance and found him. I thought he may have died. But no, alive and kicking and frustratingly successful as a writer a filmmaker.

We were very good friends and he has never offered to open the golden gates so that I could get a glimpse of what’s inside.

Well he did once, but I was to incompetent to get inside.

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