With such an active and erratic imagination as mine, it is only a matter of course that it undoubtedly manifests itself in my subconcious, namely in my dreams.
Last night was one of these instances, yet this time with added existential reflection.
Having recently developed a resurrected love of my old school favourite music, I have found myself listening to a lot of the Smashing Pumpkins back catalogue. It takes me back to my 14 year old days sitting in friends’ rooms watching Pumpkins music videos and then my usually fruitless attempts at mastering the guitar solo from Zero on my Fender, note by note, from dog-earred printouts from UltimateGuitar, gradually speeding up, like a retarded windup toy, until it sounded something not even marginally like Mr Corgan’s original.
Ah Mr Corgan…
The bald, brooding, peculiar Richard O’Brien lookalike, rock star who made my heart and soul soar for so many years and, as of last night, apparently also my loins.
Like any other dream you expect to have after a night of beer and waay too much tequila, it was pretty cracked out. But nonetheless realistic…except for the whole meeting Billy Corgan/poetic love affair. And this is what it was. A beautiful poetic love affair whereby instead of a passionately violent removal of clothes, Mr Corgan stared wistfully through the blue haze that engulfed Brick Lane indoor market hall (yep) to where I was standing in the audience (by the fire escape, just next the the Ethiopian food stand). As the set finished with the final chords of Today, he carefully places his guitar down, walks through the crowd and declares he has been waiting his entire life to find me. And having now found me, apparent love of Billy Corgan’s life, like Mr Darcy and Miss Bennett, we walked hand in hand into the night, the neon signs lightly reflecting off his head, down Brick Lane. Possibly to buy a curry to celebrate our new love. In Act II, (my dreams are often broken into interludes and acts) our love has left the heady sensorial heights of the Brick Lane food market and moved to a council estate. We are sat on a bench beside a tramp lady, surrounded by cats, Billy holds my hand and recites some breathtaking poetry, which I am almost certain were actually just the lyrics to the final verse of Cherub Rock. A cat jumps onto my lap. Understandably startled at this cruel intrusion on Billy’s love declaration, I look up and see my 14year old self in my Zero t-shirt come and retrieve the cat. And then I wake up…
I have never found Billy Corgan especially attractive, though that is by no means a prerequisite to any of my previous sex dreams, but who am I to question my booze addled subconscious. However, what concerned me the most as I awoke with the usual euphoric state of happiness and contentment after one of my lovely dreams, is that it has clearly been that long since I had any serious relationship that my consciousness feels it is acceptable to make me even contemplate what it would be like to be in a relationship, real or one manifested in the recesses of my mind, with someone who had been between the legs of this woman. Or for that matter, this one.
Oh Mr Corgan… be still my beating heart.