"I keep having dreams
Of pioneers and pirate ships and Bob Dylan
Of people wrapped up tight in the things that will kill them
Of being trapped in a lift plunging straight to the bottom
Of open seas and ways of life we've forgotten
I keep having dreams
Amy worked in a bar in Exeter
I went back to her house and I slept beside her
She woke up screaming in the middle of the night
Terrified of her own insides
Dreams of pirate ships and Patty Hearst
Breaking through a life over-rehearsed
She can't remember which came first
The house, the home, or the terrible thirst
She keeps having dreams
And on the worst days
When it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons
She's got her cowboy boots and car keys on the bedstand
So she can always run
She can get up, shower, and in half an hour she'll be gone
I keep having dreams of things I need to do
And waking up but not following through
But it feels like I haven't slept at all
When I wake to a silence and she's facing the wall
Posters of Dylan and of Hemingway
An antique compass for a sailor's escape
She says you just can't live this way
And I close my eyes and I never say
I'm still having dreams
And on the worst days
When it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons
I sleep with my passport
One eye on the back door
So I can always run
I can get up, shower, and in half an hour I'll be gone
And come morning
I am disappeared
Just an imprint on the bedsheets
I'm by the roadside with my thumb out
A car pulls up, and Bob's driving
So I climb in
We don't say a word
As we pull off into the sunrise
And these rivers of tarmac are like arteries across the country
We are blood cells alive in the bloodstream
The beating heart of the country
We are electric pulses
In the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country
We are electric pulses
In the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country
We are electric pulses
The sleeping soul of the country
The sleeping soul of the country
The sleeping soul of the country"
I keep having dreams. Mine are usually less lyrical yet never short on the simple beauty of things that I don't actually hold in my hands. Like painting a small pony's hooves hot pink with a Musician Hero of mine and his nieces, while he wears a striking scarlet button up shirt and signature black trousers; hair coif and perfect in the trademark disorder. A smile the light up the world and nothing but the light of life and vitality in his eyes as they look at me.
And of course I look common and plain in comparison, but always better than I feel on the daily, with shiny hair and a smile.
This clutching feeling in my chest when I remember these dreams, that seem so real while my eyes are shut that when I wake up they stay with me all day and into forever. I am compelled to share them with friends and only tweak a few details and leave out the pieces which pinch that beating device inside my chest and squeeze the parts of me that are shut off to the rest of the world. I keep those for myself. Those parts that are just too good to share. The whispers and the looks that are more real in the dream than any thing in my waking life. Are these the things my subconscious longs for but are so locked up that they do not get to see sunlight? Because it's so far from existing that I can't even admit that I do indeed feel this way? These feelings that make me just a little more vulnerable and a little more human?
So I touched the hand of one of my heroes last night and I felt like I was stealing something that wasn't supposed to be mine. Like I was stealing a touch that I didn't deserve. But I put my hand lightly on top of his while it was on the railing right in front of me. And I felt like a creeper and a fangirl and all those durogatory nouns that people fling at girls that admire musicians to make their own adoration seem more normal. I know that if I had tried a little harder I could shake his hand legitimately and probably get a picture and a hug and exchange words and pleasantries like a normal fucking person but I also knew that that was not going to happen. So I reached out my hand and set it on his, for maybe 4 seconds. Likely, one of the less invasive things that's ever happened to this man, but I still feel like I shouldn't have done it. I do not deserve to touch him. His hand was remarkably cool and dry considering that he had been singing, dancing and carrying on for the previous 90+ minutes. So these tear just appear in my eyes when I think about this. It might be because I know he is real now that I have touched his hand. The human who's hand I touched is no longer sounds and words on a stage in front of me or coming through my portable stereo, but really real. And maybe that will break the spell? I might be scared of breaking the spell. My magical musical heroes all have spells over me.
This is a hard thing for me. The day after going to see musicians that I hold so close and tight to my heart is always a cascade of various emotions. I'm on a Rollercoaster ride with the ups and downs. I'm not sure if this happens to normal people, well adjusted people, people that know they are people, and that what they think and feel and do is valid and legitimate. People that do what people do. I don't know because I am not one of those people.
I'm a being that would sooner exist in the realm of dreams ... dreams of pirate ships and Bob Dylan.
