Last night, however, I was in a thick, dark jungle. Vines were all around me with remnants of ropes and wooden step ladders hanging haphazardly overhead. This jungle must have been a contender for bio-versatility because it also housed nordic pine trees, pre-historic cycad ferns and, of all things, heavily-laden but unsupervised donkeys calmly wandering the leaf-strewn floor.
It was imperative that I get to the Front of the Line and swing nimbly like Tarzan on a Triple Espresso past the other contenders. I wasn't smug as I passed them, just relieved, and immediately focussed my efforts on overtaking the next person working their way through the jungle and so on and so forth.
"Crikey, getting myself that treadmill's certainly helped in the fitness stakes," I thought to myself, in that bizarre window of realisation that:
a) you're dreaming; and
b) you're providing some kind of commentary on the dream you're currently having.
The Front of the Line was eventually reached and was a collection of Spanish-looking white-daubed haciendas in a muddy clearing. The hide-out of Columbian drug lords? A dodgy two-star resort? Murray Bridge's new housing estate circa 1976? I wasn't sure, except it was nowhere I'd ever been before.
The other side of the buildings revealed a crowd of dishevelled and distressed refugees. I knew that they were refugees even though they didn't identify themselves as such; it was just one of those things you accept in dream states. These refugees were all white, hippie-looking folk and talked of how long they'd been waiting to get accepted into a better country. Years, for most of them.
My heart sank a little, but I took a number from a machine that looked rather like the one at La Poste and leaned against a stone wall, content to wait. The donkeys had by this time made it to the Haciendas with their packs on, let me pat them and, without having their loads checked or unpacked, seemed to head back in the direction they'd already come from. I didn't mind, because I'd found a pineapple that had just been spat out of the number machine. It was deliciously ripe and the skin was able to be peeled off like a mandarin.
A wooden customer service counter appeared out of the ground and my name was called.
"Here you go," said a beaming, chubby-cheeked man. "We knew that you were coming and your allotted new country is.... Switzerland!"
He leaned over to shake my hand and in the other he gave me a swizzle stick used in cocktails. This one had the Australian flag on it. I jabbed it into the remains of my pineapple and walked proudly on towards the exit sign.
None of the other refugees were outraged but wished me well. "Onyer, love," called out the tallest one with a dreadlocked beard covering his chest.
"Ta," I called back and waved.
As I turned around, I found myself back in our Geneva apartment, nervously peering through the fish eye in the door.
"Oh bugger it, it's bloody Madonna again."
Her Madge was imperiously pushing open the lift doors, clad in shiny black designer S&M threads with lacquered yellow hair that accentuated her newly pointy, stretched face. What the hell was I going to feed her, I fretted. She's a macro-biotic fuss-budget and all I've got is chocolate and coffee.
She buzzed the door and I ignored it.
"I know you're in there, Kath. I need to talk to you. Urgently."
Sighing so that she'd hear what an unwanted inconvenience she was, I slowly opened the door, making sure to roll my eyes the very moment she saw my face.
Unsurprisingly, Madonna was undeterred, and confidently swept past me with a squeak of leather and latex before plonking herself on our IKEA sofa.
Seated opposite her, I pushed my tracksuit pants into my ugg boots and zipped up my polar fleece top in a self-protective gesture. These few seconds of preparation gave me the edge: she was going to have to wait until I was ready to speak. And I was.
"Look, I think you're great at what you do. Honestly. But I've never been a huge fan and don't have time - no, hear me out, please don't interrupt - or the inclination to give you tips on your love life, OK?"
Her bottom lip started to quiver and she whispered, 'Can I please have a tissue,' just as my alarm went off.
........ I must have pulled a muscle in my neck because it's killing me this morning. I guess that swinging on vines, emigrating and rejecting superstars does that to you.
22 comments:
Your dream makes for riveting reading, but that picture of Madge is a nightmare!
...isn't she just? I know that she's confident and done everything her own way and is in control of her sexuality blah blah blah but she seems very unsexual to me. I kinda wish she'd start spending her millions, put on some more clothes and perhaps raise the kids that she bought/adopted....?
My mother would have attributed that dream to cheese before bed time. And a pulled neck hurts like the dickens. Hope the pain is easing now.
WV: pawsigh - what cats and dogs do so eloquently when they don't get their own way
You were about to tell off Madonna??
Maybe it was just a dream, but that's awesome.
FruitCake is right, that picture of her is awful. I've seen a similar terrifying one of Madonna sitting on a bench or chair (whatever) with her legs so wide apart you could park a Mac truck in there. The scrawniness of her arms and legs with all those tendons looking like hawsers is just off putting. The girl needs a hamburger or two. With fries and gravy.
Strange this... I've just recovered from a pulled neck last week, which settled eventually, after about 5 days. Working from home is wonderful, because on Monday it was so damn painful that I gobbled 2 panadol and went off for a nana-nap after lunch. Then worked through until about 7 pm - so still got a full days work in with a siesta as well!
That dream sounds so familiar! I'm sure we all have those kind of odd juxtapositions, the oddest part of all is that DURING the dream it all seems perfectly normal. It's only after waking up you realise how odd it is.
Heh. What an interesting dream. I grew up with Madonna (my older sister was a pre-teen when she was just getting really big), and even still have a record or two of hers, and you know, I really miss old Madonna. I've not really cared for anything past The Immaculate Collection album.
Dream group would have a field day with this one? Can I please borrow it - I haven't been dreaming lately.
Great post.
I didn't have cheese before bedtime, but chocolate certainly featured.... then again it features just about *every* night... ?
Agree, River. I think she's over-fit and spent far too much time on working out, so that 'looking good' is way in the past and now she's just haggard and wiry and, well, just a bit tragic.
Snap, Wally. I'm all buttered up with Tiger balm and have taken a Panadol, trying very hard to sit still and hold my posture. There is a Snickers bar sitting here that might also help improve things....
Me either, no-one. Everything after 1990 was fit only for torture or resting your coffee mug on.
Yes, Pandora and tell me how they interpret it!
That sure is an interesting dream. All that cheese from the Swiss cheese shops. Its funny how dreams jump all over the place. Interpreters could have fun with this one.Having M turn up would turn it into a nightmare for me.
Oh dreams are so frustrating! If this was me I'd be racking my brains for the next two days wondering what Madonna was going to ask me before the alarm went off!
This happens to me a lot - the alarm goes off right at the pivotal point of the dream: "And the murderer is...!" I believe my subconscious times it that way on purpose. But why????
dianeb, maybe my cricked neck is Madonna's fault!?
JackieK, she wanted my advice on her lovelife. She's over fifty and worth a billion but still hasn't found Mr Right Forever, has she?
Bonjour,
I used to have dreams about Madonna when both she and I were young but I am NOT going to post about them.
Suffice it to say, judging by that picture you ave posted, they would now be nightmares.
:0)
Cheers
PM
Er yes, Plasman. I can understand the Eighties Madonna having appeal as she wasn't quite so aggressive and stringy then....
Urgghh. Madonna, the ultimate plastic tart. No thanks, not now, not then, not ever. ~shudder~
Word verification: Angst. Somebody really does have fun targeting those words.
yes, what Fruitcake said; and what Kath responded with.
Wishing your neck an exit as fast as one of Madges disposable toyboys gets.
And what a dream to remember! I think there should be a movie made about this.
As well as the neck you must have been exhausted. The donkeys sound nice - I wonder where they came from.
I rarely remember dreams but I used to have a recurrent one where my eldest child dies (I know, terrifying) and at her memorial service we release yellow balloons. I would always wake up in a sweat and feel panicked.
When i finally revealed it to a friend she said the dream actually meant I was saying goodbye to my own childhood and the traumas associated with that. I felt at peace with that and I never dreamed it again.
I hear you, Wally. She's STRAINING to be sexual that it comes across as desperate, aggressive and cold. She looks as though she belongs on a cold slab keeping the other dead frogs company in biology class.
Thanks Ann. Had to do a fairly entertaining mime to the French-speaking pharmacist when 'asking' for their version of Deep Heat.
Who'd play Madonna, Nicole? :) I can absolutely see Cate Blanchett in my part...
No idea about the donkeys, Anji, but I've always loved them. I'm assuming that their packs were loaded with chocolate. Swiss chocolate.
That's a good way to look at it, Vanessa. I think that tarot cards are like that too - what seems bad at first sight is actually a positive sign.
I can not dream., because my sleeping rough. lol
LMFAO
I'd trade that dream for the one I had of hubby in the pink surplice any day!
What is it with the bloggers I'm reading and dreams this week? There's a lot of weird s**t going around - but hang on! I'm the common link between the bloggers I read ...
Anyway, thank god someone told the silly cow off!!
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