by Steve Mitchell
So, I’m on the downhill side of pneumonia, and it’s my weekend and I sleep in. I dream I’ve left a party and am trying to walk home. It’s a long walk.
I just want to get home.
In the dream, a guy I knew in the service finds me. He’s been tasked with finding me and there I am. He collects me and we get in a big, old, convertible Cadillac. As he drives, music plays over the radio.
Where did he discover such cool music? I’m so square. The music is moody and cool and mysterious. I’m envious of his esoteric taste and his hip knowledge.
We arrive but it’s not my house. It’s more of the same party, some five miles past my house.
I just want to get home. I’ve got to start walking!
Then I wake up.
And I hover between dream and reality.
I’m already home. Right? I’m in bed. This is home.
Still …I feel the urge to fall back to sleep so I can work my way home in a new dream. I waffle back and forth, but decide it’s unnecessary.
Then I realize the music I’d heard came from my own subconscious!
I am cool!
And I wish I were a musical genius so I could write that sh*t down. But I don’t know how to do that. And I can’t remember any of it, anyhow. Not a whit.
I open my eyes.
At least I’m home.