Last night I dreamed:
- David Bowie, older but statuesque and charming, is in our midst. I open conversations with him and he demures, chatting briefly, but ultimately remains aloof. He turns in for bed, perched loftily atop a triple bunk, out of reach.
- I go into a supposedly familiar general store expecting to see a supposedly familiar Indian shopkeeper behind the counter, but the Indian has been bought out by the Chinese. In his place are 4 Beijing-Olympic-style hostesses in shiny canary yellow dresses, all smiling. Alienated, I leave the shop and see the old owner who looks like Mac Maharaj, in a coffee bar sipping a latte.
- I enter a decrepit, Orwellian room with about 20 light switches, only 2 of which actually work, and dimly at that. An apocalyptic news bulletin comes on the radio from an Indian politician talking about mass outbreaks of an incurable virus. I panic, and yearn for the Brubecks (my university lecturer Darius and his wife Cathy), an earlier life where I knew what was what, who was who, and what I had hoped for. The soundtrack could have been Bowies “Five Years”, although it seems like it was only 5 weeks. Shades of Cloverfields, 1984, and I am Legend.
What sayeth the soothsayers?