November 21, 2011 § 10 Comments
I have a rule in our house: no plots; no dreams.
It is amazing how people can bore on for fucking Europe about the plot of some TV programme or film they have seen – “There was this man, right? And he…” – till you begin to feel rigor mortis set in, but dreams are even worse. Don’t get me on the subject of people who relate their dreams. They are death itself. An old boyfriend of my mother’s would get up at sparrows and write all his down, page after page of the fucking things. Well, that’s one thing, if he wanted to bore himself to death, but then he committed the cardinal sin of reading them out to everyone at breakfast. The man should have been locked up. Anybody who starts to tell me about their fucking dream… “You’d never believe it, I had this really weird dream?” The news would be if ever they had a dream that wasn’t weird. “You’d never believe it, I had this really ordinary dream.” But then no one would want to listen because it was so fucking ordinary. I never want to hear people’s dreams however fucking weird. I depart from Freud and his ilk in as much as I set no store by them whatsoever. Most of them mean Jack Shit. And even if they could be interpreted, they say more about the interpreter – crackpot, quacky, bullshitting charlatan – surely, than the dreamer?
Last night an old friend came to stay again. He is one of the most brilliant men I know and he generously listens to me bang on for hours about Smidgen and Long Shot and planktonhood and the general tragedy of my life (I say that not entirely seriously, before anyone takes umbrage and reminds me of my infinite blessings). He is perhaps the only person on earth I will indulge with allowing a little dream-telling. He told me on the telephone before he arrived that he’d had this dream all about me which was, frankly, too fabulous for words. After supper he could hardly contain himself.
He and a man who looked like a cross between Byron and George Clooney were standing at the bottom of some sweeping stairs and having a conversation which was deeply intellectually scintillating and thrilling – about composers and literature and art and goodness knows what. Bryney was tall, and handsome to a degree, and wearing a deeply wonderful, beautifully cut black suit. They were mid-marvellous conversation when I came sauntering up to them, in black of course (always black). The real me interjected at this point in the dream-telling and said I hoped I was wearing my mascara? but he was so busy describing the moment… He had been about to say, “Darling, hello…” to me, but I had indicated that no, no, it was not the moment to speak; and then Clooron had gathered me up in a kiss which frankly had reminded my friend of all the screen kisses the old man in Cinema Paradiso had cut from every film he had ever shown, and spliced together. It was, my friend said, quite the most romantic experience and privilege, even just witnessing it, that he had had in a very, very long while.
I thought, blimey, things have come to a pretty tragic pass when my old mates are having dreams on my behalf! When I am no longer in possession of my own fantasies and my situation is so desperate that others are having to have them for me!
My friend was worried that he had told me the dream – that I might have been upset by it in some way? Not a bit of it. I reassured him that I loved living it for a few moments. It was just up my bloody rue, just more’s the effing pity it never happens in real life.
Who did he suppose the Bryney/Clooron figure might have been?
Let’s take a wild guess.
My friend raised his eyebrows at me as if to say we both knew fine well.
I could have almost have become excited but then I remembered it was only a fucking dream, not even my own dream, and we also know fine well what I think those.