I’m going on a Mediterranean cruise with Kamala Harris
Dreams and Nightmares from the edge of the abyss
Dreams are strange creatures aren’t they? One minute you’re watching your beloved baseball team having their arse handed to them at 6am as dawn is preparing to break in a fantastic array of reds and purples in a night sky turning to morning and then you wake up to the news that summer here in England is officially over, rain is beating down and the only way you’ll get a suntan is standing outside in the Beatles “English Rain”, the predicted overnight riots in Shakespeare’s Sceptred Isle thankfully didn’t materialise and I’m apparently going on a swanky, all expenses paid Mediterranean cruise with Kamala Harris and I can only blame myself, Aussie Rules Football and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Now that, my friends, is a lot of bad tangents, some of them twisted and many of which we simply don’t have the time for here but if I was any kind of writer I’d turn some if not all of these into an entertaining story for the ages but as my lack of book sales would seem to confirm, I’m not any kind of writer. Whoops! There’s another bad tangent and as I’m sure you’ll agree, we already have enough to be going on with so let’s end this opening paragraph with a recurring question: Dreams are strange creatures aren’t they?
“There are times, however — and this is one of them — when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring rain on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison scum right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation”
Hunter S Thompson (from “Generation of Swine”)
Yet more bad tangents and chasing dreams. Hunter chased a dream, the American Dream, until arguably he found it to be as foul and full of lies as life itself, but that isn’t the topic under discussion today. No it’s the watching of a recording of a mighty game of Aussie Rules Football at 1am just so I could stay awake for the 3am start of my beloved boys in LA Dodger blue and how despite an incredibly tight game ending in a one point victory for the “Bombers” of Essendon over the “Dockers” of Freemantle I fell asleep only to awaken with my beautiful boys in Dodger blue leading 4–1 early in a game against the “Phillies” of Philadelphia (and this year’s nailed on winners of the World Series) only to capitulate to a crushing 9–4 loss on the back of 3 home runs from slugger Kyle Schwarber and with defeat hanging over me like a rotting, stinking carcass, I took myself off to bed only to awaken 3 hours later, to window panes full of rain, the end of an English summer that hasn’t actually started, and weird dreams of playing pool with Kamala Harris aboard the swankiest cruise ship you’re never going to see, except that is, in my strangest of dreams.
It all started, as I recall, by boarding the cruise ship to find the first of the two decks looking eerily reminiscent of a luxury tourist coach: seats arranged in fours, card tables and TV sets between each compartment of four, space aplenty, excited chatter around each table and a repeating pattern of humanity for as far as my eyes dared see. I spotted a vacant set of four seats and immediately thought table, space to play some cards, open my laptop and work on my next Pulitzer Prize winning novel when a second thought occurred to me: fuck it. Let’s explore upstairs first.
Whereas the lower deck, albeit luxurious and spacious, was nothing compared to the upper and final deck of my cruise ship as, akin to the Tardis in Dr Who the upper deck expanded into the grandest and widest setting I can only loosely describe as being inside a Grand Ballroom. Mighty and famous works of art hung on the walls, from Picasso to Dali, Rembrandt to van Gogh, waiters and waitresses with permanently fixed smiles mingled with the highest of society as I ordered a coca-cola (plenty of ice) and took up residence at a huge hand carved solid oak table in the corner of the room. I had a sea view but we were far from leaving port yet as I unpacked my book for the cruise, my pack of playing cards and of course, my laptop.
“Courtesy of the lady” smiled my waiter. “She’s waiting for you by the pool table” but before I could thank him he was gone. I rose unsteadily from my seat, the ice crashing in my tumbler as my hands gently trembled. Lady? Who knew I was here? Who would be kind enough to pay for my drink? I didn’t spot the pool table at first but I should have. It was the centre-piece to a throwback to a bygone era in a land of opulence of wealthy excess. Either side of the pool table were excited customers at the fruit machines that flanked it, with fellow patrons flicking through the available music at the jukebox. But I hadn’t even noticed the music let alone the fruit machines and then, I saw her. She was chalking her cue if memory serves but there was no mistaking the figure leaning on the pool table and the smile that lit up the room. She gestured for me to join her and as I passed a favourite Salvador Dali painting hanging proudly over one of the many ornate fireplaces I could only return her smile as first I walked passed her to collect a cue from the rack before introducing myself.
“I’m Stephen” I laughed.
“I know” she replied. “I’m Kamala. Would you like me to break?”
Then I awoke to window panes full of rain and I knew that summer was over.
Dreams are strange creatures aren’t they? Anyway, here’s some more gibberish and balderdash I self-published in March of this year:
"Tales I Tell Myself" - link to Amazon
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.