In my dream, I was the camera, floating just in front of Ziggy-Era David Bowie while he sang (and played guitar) during some concert that never happened. His teeth were still the ragged lizard teeth of the early seventies, his hair the blond mop. He wore an electric blue one piece that clung to him without being painted on. The neckline plunged nearly to his navel.
And he is singing this SONG; a song that does not exist, but really ought to. It was a big glam ballad like those found on his earlier albums, full of melodic changes and that trick of his where his voice can suddenly swoop down into the baritone after yelping up in that higher register for half the song.
It was like 'The Bewlay Brothers', but crossed with 'Five Years' and even 'Moonage Daydream.'
I lamented not long ago that I never dreamt anything useful, that I never dreamt a plot for a novel or a pop song. This was my moment. Imagine if I could have carried that song through the Gates of Horn and it had turned out to be actually as great as it seemed in my dream.
Instead, during the bridge of the song, I was awoken with a shock as my phone rang; a telemarketer.
I didn't answer it even, but, by the time the ringing stopped I was too far in the world to get back to sleep and, worse yet, the song was gone. I lay in bed a long while this morning, trying desperately to summon the melody or the words of the song I'd seen and heard David Bowie sing to me in my dream, to no avail.
This is an inauspicious beginning to the day.
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