When I Paint My Masterpiece
A friend of mine had a dream last week. It took place at a frenetic party, and in one of the corners, there I was, with an easel, a clatter of paint, and a something rather impressive taking place on the canvas. From what I understand, it was more Jackson Pollock than Rolf Harris, with dramatic sprays of colour and some kind of implied passion.
Pretty flattering, I guess. But apparently I was also conducting a media interview with a mature lady who was seated beside me. Between dramatic brushstrokes, I was hurling these profound questions at my subject. Sheets of meaning were revealed and an audience had gathered to watch this barmpot spectacle. In time, it was revealed that the lady was the mother of someone quite famous, and so the drama took an extra spin.
What does this mean? I guess if I wanted to take the positive, I would imagine that the dream is some kind of commentary on my multi-tasking fever, keeping a series of projects spinning and sustaining. Alternately, I may be a dreadful old drama queen, constantly looking for reassurance and prestige.
Still it wasn't even the strangest dream I've featured in. Back in school, a mate confessed that I had made a cameo appearance in one of his nightmares. He was getting fresh with a lady friend when he looked around, the attractive girl's face had morphed into mine. My school pal was cleared bothered by this, and he wasn't sure if he should have told me about it. Actually, it's not an image that I'd like to dwell on myself...