Don’t you just hate those dreadful Good Dreams?
Last night I had a series of them. Dratted things. They segued in and out of each other like a joyful torture parade, making my heart soar and dance and drift. I was rich, desired, loved, celebrated, surrounded by friends. I had gills. The sun was hot and the sky bright 70s green and I swam in vast oceans of yellow and I could breathe underwater. And there was one of those sea dragons down there like we saw the other night on David Attenborough waving his tiny fins a zillion miles an hour and I swam right up to him and looked at him deep in his eyes. He looked at me. I looked at him. Then we danced. There was a feeling of safety and silence. Then I was in the street and everyone was nodding at me as I passed and they were all wearing bunny ears. I think I was the major. Everyone liked me, like in the height of Hamsterdam when the lovely black cop looks around at his handywork. It was Bunny Mecca. A carnival. It felt wonderful. I began to do cartwheels and my body was fit like I when I was little and then I flipped off some monkey bars through the air and the trip lasted ages and then I landed in soft, soft green grass. I was rich. The green dress in the shop window was on the kitchen table and the bathroom was filled with Annick Goutal perfumes, every single blissful one. Somebody began to bury me in warm sand on the beach and then I was lying by a pool in the South of France like the one from Swimming Pool. All the beautiful friends whom I hadn’t seen in a long time were there. Some who live overseas, some who live close but I hadn’t seen for too long, some that had died. I was swimming and there were cocktails and people diving off a diving board. It was a bit like Boogie Nights. I never felt so happy in my entire life. And I knew we had weeks to spend there, just drinking and eating food and talking to each other. And it would be warm every single day right until we went to bed so we could swim into the night and never need to go to sleep. Everyone was happy. I was so full of happiness I could have burst into flames.
Then I woke up.
Dam-nation. It was only 8am and it’s Saturday and The Love was still sleeping so I gripped my eyes shut and tried desperately to return to the Swimming Pool house but it wouldn’t come back. It was cold there now, and empty. Dratted dream. My how I loathe Good Dreams like that. They’re mean. They’re actually uncommon in my Bunny Sleep because I am a notorious Nightmarer. Nightmares are Better (unless they’re the Really Bad Type 2 variety, and those ones are worse than Good Dreams. Those are the ones that really make you shiver and you can’t forget them and the picture of them won’t leave your eyes and you have to get The Love to turn on all the lights and squeeze you tight and hold your hand to accompany you to the bathroom. Not like those Type 2 Nightmares. They’re no fun to wake up from. And they can often leave you with the Lonely Feeling.)
But the Type 2 Nightmare is rare and I’ve only had about five of them in my life. For now, I’m talking about Standard Type 1 Bad Dreams. Who wants to wake up from a dream like the Swimming Pool one, when you can wake up from being captive in a Josef Fritzl-type cave or a terrifying Wolf Creek-ish one where even though it’s daylight John Jarratt is still following you down the highway and no matter where you hide he’s going to sniff you out? You awake with such a bang and it’s fantastic, because you won and real life just seems so heavenly. And you smile and get up and make yourself toast knowing that John Jarratt has to hang up his tools and go back inside to his dusty transistor radio and baked beans because he Can’t Get You Now. Sucked in John Jarratt.
Yes. I prefer your standard Bad Dream. And then to wake up and live a nice life. Today I have a melancholy feeling because of that nasty Good Dream. Naughty dream.
Don’t get me wrong, Good Dreams can sometimes be Good too. Just as long as they’re not too Good.