So this ex-girlfriend and I are travelling across America on this extra long bus with ironing-board like beds in them…
…the old woman in the bed below is still angry because, in an earlier part of the dream, a friend of ours attacked her with an ice cream. This attack evoked a stronger reaction from the authorities than anyone was expecting, so she went into hiding in the desert on a camel with my Aunt Marie.
So, we’re on the bus with ironing-board beds which are far more comfortable than you’d expect – it’s two to an ironing board you see, and somehow it fits my ex and me…
…anyway, there’s this other Australian on board. He’s a young guy, maybe twenty, with a Prince Charming bowl cut and a Nirvana t-shirt. He may even be that runaway whose mother threw a garbage bin through our window and was later using undergrad Black Magik (stolen locks of hair, etc.) to stalk Julia-who-lived-under-the-stairs in our place in Balmain in the early 90s, but possibly not.
Either way, in this dream he’s an aspiring MC, but the Cali locals, whilst quite encouraging at first in that surprising way that Americans often seem to be, are finally less than impressed with his talents, as are we. He continues regardless, while the driver calls a stop and all split to the loo or the local diner.
Meanwhile, I’m suddenly back in Oz.
I’m watching a documentary about music and movie stars who have said at times they’d like to move to Australia and, despite the fact that none of those caught on film, including Johnny Cash, Eartha Kit, and that actress from that show with the single-mum black nurse (Julia?), had carried out their threat (the latter two had secretly had affairs and even fallen pregnant here) I was employed by the government to encourage a more famous level of migration, like a kind of Hollywood brain drain to the Northern Beaches or something… whatever.
I was against it personally, though I was more than happy to take DIMIA’s dirty money. Nonetheless I was doing little in the way of encouragement, partly out of opposition, particularly since no one had told me how to encourage movie stars to move to Australia as yet, but mostly because I was too busy lazing around the beach myself to do anything but analyse my dreams…
…then I was body surfing on a cliché picture postcard Sydney beach, like an idealised blend of every holiday in Avoca combined with an somehow idealised and clean Coogee, Bronte and Tamarama blend.
I dizzily stop body-surfing after being mildly dumped a few times as the waves this day are really quite enormous. Then I’m at the shop attempting to purchase something I know only as ‘Breakfast Bubble Gum,’ to which they keep offering me cans of Coca Cola, whilst I convince someone whose brother’s life I apparently saved as some point to pay for. Then End… of What I Can Remember.