I don’t usually remember my dreams, but every now and then I do. This is a series of dreams I had last year about political figures (except the one about Bowie, of course). Strangely there was no Bernie dream. Another Facebook cross-post (I didn’t update the blog last year, but I posted a *lot* on Facebook).
I dreamed of Michelle Obama. I was in the backseat, she was in the front passenger seat, Barack behind the wheel. She was telling me I needed to finish the worship plan for church. “You should have done it by now.” I’m like, “all right Mrs. O. Is it ok to call you Mrs. O?” She didn’t answer. Barack was like, “yeah that’s all right.”
I dreamt I woke up in a bar, some musty, dusty old bar, in the early morning. For some reason I had slept there, in an old four-poster bed. I rose and was trying to gather my things and make the bed in a big hurry because I was late for a gig but it was dim and I couldn’t see very well. The ceiling was low and the floors were uneven and I kept banging into things. There were people milling about, and suddenly, there was Hillary Clinton, in a pants suit, smiling and pointing. Someone said to me, “Hillary owns a bar, she wants to talk to you about playing piano there” (In my dream I’m a fantastic piano player). I called across the room and said “I want to play your bar but I really have to go; just email me” making little texting motions with my thumbs. Then, remembering everything that’s going on, I thought better of it, and said “er, call me. Just call me,” making the thumb and pinky gesture near my ear. That felt even more wrong and the room fell silent. Mrs Clinton grimaced, and my cheeks felt hot. Trying to smooth things over, I approached. “Look I think I made things awkward back there and I was just kidding. Just get back to me whichever way is more convenient for you.” And I patted her on the back. But my hands were awkward paws and they made a clomping sound on her jacket, and I knew she wasn’t going to book me.
Last night I dreamed about Donald Trump. For some reason, he was supposed to sell my mom a used car so I needed to find him to give him money and get the car. I was running around cobblestone streets and abandoned wharfs and docks in a cold clammy mist. I kept seeing his wispy blond hair and navy blazer disappear around corners. At one point he jumped on a huge barge, loaded with boxcars. He was waving at me and laughing as the barge disappeared in the mist. Finally I looked in a golden hotel lobby and there he was just standing there. I walked right in and he said “you’re not supposed to be here.” I said, “I need the car.” As I walked closer to him I was surprised at how small and frightened he looked. I felt sorry for him.
I dreamed David Bowie and I performed together for the high school talent show. We went over really well and I told him we should form a band. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve gotten used to home life, and I don’t relish going on the road again. Plus I have my prawn fishing.” “Prawn fishing?” I said. Jump-cut to David Bowie sitting on a high lifeguard chair facing a golden sun with prawns jumping into his outstretched arms which for some reason had turned into giant crab pincers. “Yes, prawn fishing!” he shouted over his shoulder, clacking his pincers. Suddenly the wet sand started moving and quivering beneath my feet: prawns — millions of them, moving toward Bowie’s lifeguard chair.