I’ve wanted to publish something for True Stories, but a few dreams have gotten in the way. Because of them it looks like I will continue with essay-type pieces of writing for at least one or two more posts.
In one dream, George Harrison — long hair, scraggy beard, blue jeans, and sandles — leapt out the window with me. In no time, we were flying over the Indian Ocean, all roiling, turbulent, and white capped. George’s bell bottoms flapped in the breeze as the stars and moon came in and out of view from behind the clouds above us. We traveled through space and time, landing in Bangladesh. We descended into plush velour theater seats to watch Eric Clapton underneath a spot light play the guitar. A cigarette dangled from his lips. There was an orange hue all around him. I dream in color.
A few nights later, none other than John Lennon, appeared in my bedroom. He sat cross-legged on the end of my bed. He wore a black turtle neck, sun-glasses, and had his hair in a mop-top. Unlike George, who said nothing, John rambled on and on. I think he talked about Cynthia and the creation of the Rubber Soul album. It felt to me like his words contained deep secrets about art and the true meaning of life. Unfortunately, I cannot remember exactly what he said.
But this morning, I see a listing for the old Beatles’ movie “A Hard Day’s Night,” which is to air on the Flix Channel’s “Late, Late, Late Show.” Maybe by watching it I can retrieve some of what John told me two nights ago. I know it is silly, but everything feels like fate.