I have two startling dreams this night.
In the first, I’m traveling with the most interesting man in the world, Jack, on the highway going up a cliff. For some reason, he’s driving Sonny Crockett’s black Ferrari Daytona Spyder from Miami Vice and he stops and we get out. Then Jack starts waving down sports cars driving on the highway toward us. One of them stops and it’s the second car Sonny was driving on the show—a Ferrari Testarossa. Jack forces the driver out of the car and steals it, but then all of the sudden his other Ferrari starts to move until it plummets off the side of the mountain into the sea.
Maybe this is some kind of metaphor for me and my life. Or a foreboding or warning. Who knows?
The second dream consists of me sitting in a church sanctuary, one that’s not very big but has a high ceiling and a towering cross over me and long, colorful stained-glass windows. I’m sitting there surrounded by people and listening to haunting strings. Out-of-tune and grinding, the kind that sounds like it could be coming from a elementary school recital. But when I look up on the stage, I see the guys from Radiohead playing a violin and viola and other stringed instruments.
But little blips pop up like something stuck in the frame of the motion picture.
The most glorious smile I’ve ever seen.
I can’t breathe for a moment because I’ve forgotten how to. I want to reach out and capture the tiny snapshot.
But it’s gone. And when I look trying to find it all I see is Thom Yorke on the piano singing the saddest song I’ve ever heard.