I’ve always been a good dreamer, but lately, it’s off the charts. I reckon it’s probably because of the medication I’m on. There’s some cookey stuff.
I had two dreams seemingly related, one after the other. In the first, I was an Australian student at an American university. Most of the other students were American, obviously, but there was also a heap of Canadians who had a healthy rivalry with the Yanks. I was the cool kid on campus. Everyone wanted to know the laid back Aussie, and they competed for my attention. I was invited to everything, and every girl loved my accent. I was tall and athletic, a handsome guy but with a relaxed, fun attitude – almost the archetypal Aussie.
Anyway, there was some contest between the Yanks and the Canucks, and I had to judge it. It was pretty rambunctious, but ultimately I gave the prize to the Yanks. Nobody took it too seriously, but there was a lot of hootin’ and hollerin’. Finally, I stood up before everyone, and with a big smile on my face, told the winning team, “I’m just like a Canadian…only interesting.”
They went off at that, all of them, the Yanks cheering and the Canucks playfully booing. A great time was had by all, and no doubt a few bevies consumed.
I’m this impossibly handsome, charming, confident and super-cool dude who has everything in the next dream. I’m a member of one of those families you sometimes see on American TV shows, all beautiful to look at and decent as all-heck. Too good to be true, in other words, and generally enough to make an Aussie stick their fingers down their throat. In that golden family, I’m the golden boy, shiny teeth, great hair, and all – all Hollywood.
Anyway, I’m out somewhere watching some celebrity environmentalist or something give a presentation. He’s young and cool too, though pretty earnest, and I’m impressed. Afterwards, I offer to give him a lift home.
Instead, I take him back to the family house, which seems to have people everywhere. I walk in with my new friend and loudly present him – he’s here just in time for your interviews, I tell the crowd, and by that, I mean radio and TV. He’s a tad surprised but goes along with it and the crowd, as always, goes wild.
The place is rocking, someone’s tapped a keg, and everyone is looking good. Then my father shows. He’s a big, good-looking man with the sort of head you expect God to have – regal and grand. Think – for those who can remember that far back – the Michael Landon character in The Little House on the Prairie. The noble patriarch. I go to introduce him to my new friend, but instead, my father apologises and tells him he has to have a word with me first.
He takes me aside, sincere and concerned. You can’t go on acting like this, he tells me, doing whatever you want without telling anyone. He scolds me gently, his eyes never leaving my face, then welcomes the visitor with a smile, shaking his hand.
I mingle with the crowd, troubled and considering what my father has told me. I realise he is right. I’m not a bad person – in fact, I’m a decent soul – but I get carried away with myself. I return to my guest and apologise. “I think I need to give you something real,” I tell him.
He understands but interrupts before I go further. “I have something real for you,” he says and then invites me on a trip with him into the wilderness. Dream ends.
What does that mean?