A lot of the time I dream I’m on a train. It’s not the train I take to Miramichi every few weeks to check in with the office and visit family. No, this train is like a series of luxury cars that rich people might have had in the 20s or 30s. Old. Lush. Open concept. I dream I’m on this train all the time, heading home to my mother. I always have to try and find a deejaying gig for when I arrive, in order to pay my way, it’s like I have no money and I’m earning my way home from a great distance. And by deejaying I mean like music at parties, which I’ve never done in my real life. The train is crowded above and beyond capacity it seems. People milling around everywhere, not enough bar stools, sofas, ottomans, tables and chairs for everyone. Waiters in tuxes serve champagne, red and white wines, canapes, cheese, and other snacks. And all the passengers are people I know, that I grew up with, or from the community. People that have nothing to do with my waking life. Like I ran into Quentin W. and asked if he had heard about Babe. That sort of thing. Weird. And I spend hours and hours, trolling the train, speaking with everyone, trying to find someone who knows of a party that I can deejay when we arrive. I dream this all the time. It’s a little bizarre. I have no idea what it means. I’m on a journey? I need to talk to people? I’ve got to look for gigs? No friggin’ idea.
Drinking: coffee, instant and black, yes folks groceries still haven’t happened
Listening To: Bittersweet Symphony, Lukas Rossi Rockstar