Last night my dream was a really terrific thriller plot. Naturally, because I thought I was watching a thriller unfold in images before me, I don’t remember what much of happened (do YOU remember what happens in a thriller after you’ve read it?)
However, it included a number of details which I find encouraging. First, I was one of the people duped by the bad guy. Second, I was fired from my job because I was blamed for the scam. Third, I didn’t care about the job, because it had been a good thriller.
So let’s unwind that a little. Or, as we’re talking about a thriller, let’s make it more complicated.
The bad guy turned out to be not so awful. Even though he was based on a popular and execrable English comedian of the 1980s (Bobby Ball, of the awful Cannon and Ball duo, who have both apparently become committed Christians…which is a lot funnier than their act ever was.) He was a pimp in the dream and ended up getting millions of dollars out of the big corporation for which I worked.
Well, the plot isn’t so important…. In fact, it’s more significant that I was rather sanguine about losing my job and being taken away in handcuffs. You see, I’ve been fired four times in my life, as far as I recall, and I’m pleased to have come through this fictional/dream firing unscathed.
The first time I lost a job was from a Saturday job at Sainsbury’s, because I had been eating too many pork pies in the storeroom. I wasn’t very upset. (No, actually, the first time was when I was a school milk-monitor at the age of five and Margaret Thatcher, then Education Secretary, cut free school milk, thus making me the first of her four million unemployed.)
As a journalist, the three times I’ve been canned could be put down to booze in the first case, working for nasty office-politicking shitbags in the second case, and not actually doing any work in the last case.
Each one left me with differing degrees of anger and self-hatred. But in my dream I feel no such emotions. Rather I admire the aplomb of the canny pimp and the thriller plot which has unraveled in my head.
In other words, writing (developing a plot) is better for me than working in an actual job where some fat asshole can kick me out on the streets.
That may not seem like a huge insight, but it took me a long time to learn the lesson so deeply that it entered my subconscious dreamscape as it did last night.
In any case, this is only a blog. If you want real wisdom, get off the internet and go kiss your kids. (That’s something to develop in another post.)
The wait for a successor to Amadeus is over. MOZART’S LAST ARIA by Matt Rees, 2011 www.mattrees.net