This morning I woke from an epic dream.
It was wonderfully acted, with contemporary storylines, and bold cinematography.
I so enjoyed my subconscious cinematic experience, that I tried going back in for another watch.
No dice I’m afraid, but I’m all in if a sequel gets greenlit.
This is what I watched:
In a highly stylised airport that could have been Dulles International Airport, my mission was to get to Terminal G for my flight to Singapore.
Down steep escalators. Across miles of pedestrians walkways. Engulfed by a sea of humanity.
I couldn’t get to Terminal G. Every path took me to Terminal E.
Then I heard my name mentioned in a ‘last boarding call’ announcement. And I realised I was going to miss my flight out to Southeast Asia.
So I took a taxi home.
Back at my house, every room had been converted into an IT workspace. Computers. Wires. Geeks.
From stage left, Wesley came in with his wife. He was there to fix a computer. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t want to call attention to myself.
So I left the room for another room filled with more computers and wires, and other people working on those computers and those wires.
Wes showed up there too. This time solo. And we did speak. Nothing too wordy. Nothing too transcending. Just like it used to be when we worked together.
It was fine to be paired in the same scene with him again, and equally so to make it our last.
That being done, I went downstairs.
There I found my former brother and sister-in-law engaging my Mum, in a visibly touching sidebar.
Teddy said Mum seemed frail the last time he saw her. And Eleanor said she was sorry she hadn’t been closer. I couldn’t see my Mum’s face, just the back of her head. Her hair was coloured the way she used to do it years ago.
Teddy and Eleanor were having a private session with Mum, so I left.
Next I was outside, walking in a meadow, under a morning warming sun.
There were trees to my left and a long fence to my right. In a slight dip in the grass, I came upon my Mum. She looked healthy, and dressed in out-of-character jeans and a plaid top.
Mum said she was off to see the world, and she wasn’t sure when she was coming back. I pleaded all the things she was going to miss: Me. The house. My brother Fred. Her friends. Her books. Her garden.
None of those things connecting with her, I watched my Mum walk towards a distance hamlet, in the sunshine, with no mobile or forwarding address.
Again in a taxi, I was going back to the airport. This time with a ticket to Italy.
The airport was the same as before. Crowds of people. The terminal far away. A clock informing me that I had 45 minutes to get to the gate.
I was only as far as the ticket counter, not even close, when I gave up trying, and instead watched people coming off their flights.
That was just at the point that JB interrupted the scene.
He was annoyed.
He wanted to know what I thought I was doing. He was concerned about me missing my flights.
And he was angry too. Angry that I was, in his book, still unable to follow the script.
Our interaction was one-sided, his side, and ended with JB shrinking to the size of a child’s stuffed toy, and motoring away in a tiny car.
He didn’t go far before turning around.
Back in his human height, JB gently led me to an abandoned seating area.
Where we could speak.
He explained that he no longer like me even as a friend. That he didn’t want to be there. That he was never going to forgive me.
But all that aside, that he worried about me, and it made him angry that he had to worry about me when he was in love with Lisa.
Also, he was pissed off that I was putting Italy and Singapore on my list of places I could no longer get to.
Through held-back tears, I told him I was sorry for the heartbreak. I apologised for the worry. I told him that I didn’t mean to involve him, but that he never released me. It’s been years, and still I am bound to him … by him.
JB said he was unaware of his part in our present. He agreed he was holding the rope. And with that, JB let me go and headed towards the airport exit.
And as I watched him vanish through the revolving door, a thought came over me: If I ran … I could just make my flight to Italy.
I am absolutely blown away by my dream’s plot, people and use of signs.
Can you blame me for wanting more?
If I could scientifically prove that last night’s Bolognese is the driving force behind dreaming like that, I’d eat it every night.