i was john lennon, living in the present day and obviously not shot in New York. i was out somewhere with paul mcartney. i don't remember what we were talking about. anyway it transpires myself, paul, ringo and george (yes all the beatles are alive in my dream) live together in a big mansion somewhere.
anyway paul gets a call on his mobile. "oh god" he says and hangs up. he turns to me and says "something awful has happened" and rushes to the car (i forget what kind.) i'm running behind him. "what is it? what is it?" i say but macca doesn't respond.
we get in the car and speed back to our mansion. it is huge set in beautiful grounds with a long gravel drive. we park at the end of the drive and run up to the front door. i can see a figure lying on the steps, bleeding. it is one of our security guards. he is dead.
the front door is ajar and we burst through, down the long hall. two more security guards lie on the ground. they have been shot. they are also dead.
we do not stop but rush past them to the door at the end of the hall leading to the kitchen. it is a room with a central worktop and cooker. units and appliances line the three walls in front of us. one of the breakfast stools has fallen over. george harrison lies on the floor. he has been shot in the chest. bleeding. my heart is in my mouth. he too is dead. what has happened here?
i hear a moan coming from the other side of the cooker/worktop. macca cradles george's head and sobs. another moan. i move round the worktop.
half on the floor, half propped against a cupboard, bleeding from a gunshot wound to his leg is ALF.
i remember we also share a house with the cuddly Alien Life Form from the eponymous 80s US sitcom.
"John, dude. i'm so sorry..." he says.
"oh alf. what happened..."
"i... i don't know... it was so fast. they shot george. there was.. nothing... nothing i could do."
"i know alf. it's not your fault."
and then i woke up.
what the hell does it mean? from where exactly in the recessess of my brain has ALF emerged from? i did have this dream whilst on holiday in stockholm a few weeks back with Vegas. perhaps he has been spiking my drinks? how fucked up am i? why can't i have normal dreams?
anyways. your thoughts are welcome as always. i'm off to get my depot risperidone injection.
[i am listening to Moby]
5 comments:
that IS well weird...
When you analyse your dreams, you'll find it always means the exact same thing.
You should stop reading Freud.
You've uncovered what we've known all along...that the shooting of John Lennon wasn't a lone madman, but a huge conspiracy between CIA, NHS, and aliens to cover up...um...something really secret that I can only hint at or else I'm next.
Ha!
I did not spike any drinks. You are just weird.
Alf always creeped me out. *shudder*
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