Requiem for a Dream

A bunch of stuff that didn't really happen, and a few things that did.

Damn you, Dream Liev Schreiber.

I rarely remember my dreams. I’ve always assumed it’s because I spend most of my waking hours in a fantasy world of daydreams and man-childery. Like, maybe I just don’t need to recall the ramblings of my subconscious mind as my conscious mind is already away with the fairies.

Then again, maybe I just drink too much. Or perhaps I got kicked in the head as a child. I don’t know.

If I’m woken from a dream, I’ve a better chance of remembering it, but being disturbed means I don’t get to the end, and I hate that. Take the other morning. I was dreaming I was interviewing the actor Liev Schreiber, who in my dream was still with Naomi Watts. So we’re in their apartment, sitting on their bed chatting - don’t worry, it’s not that sort of dream - and I ask him, “Liev. What’s something weird you often do that makes Naomi roll her eyes?”

Naomi knows what he’s going to say, and already she’s rolling her eyes.

“Well, you know, I can’t resist a lovely cup a’ toast,” he tells me. “Naomi thinks that’s pretty silly.”

Then he changes the subject but I’m not listening. Suddenly all I’m interested is that cup of toast.

“Sorry… Liev,” I interrupt him. “What exactly is a cup of toast?”

Maybe it’s toast cut into soldiers and stacked together in a mug, I’m thinking. But then again, I don’t know, maybe it’s a cup of toasted crumbs. Or even a cup made of toast. Thing is, he’s like a slippery politician and won’t give me a direct answer. But that just makes me want to know, all the more.

“Seriously, Liev, what’s a cup of toast?”

Then my wife, who’s a much earlier riser than me, walks into the bedroom to get dressed, and suddenly I’m awake, torn from Schreiber’s apartment, and damn it all, I COULDN’T GET HIM TO TELL ME WHAT A CUP OF TOAST IS.

I still don’t know. Maybe you can tell me in the comments below. That’s not what this blog is about though. The toast thing is simply an example of a crummy dream, and yes, I know what I just wrote.

Nor is this blog about me talking in my sleep, but writing the story above reminded me of the story below, so allow me to digress one more time before at least beginning to get to the meat.

So I was on holiday with my mum in Israel - I can’t have been older than five or six - and one night something, or some collective of somethings, were skittering up and down the roof. I imagined they were squirrels, and they were making the most awful clatter.

The following morning, my mum told me I’d been talking in my sleep. Actually, pleading: “Give ‘em the nuts. Give ‘em the nuts..”

I needed to break up the text with something, so here’s a portrait of Chewbacca, riding a giant squirrel, fighting Nazis.

I suppose I should get on, now, with what this blog is actually about, which, to some extent at least, is THE BEST DREAM I EVER HAD. Because once in a while I’m lucky enough to enjoy a real humdinger, and not only remember it in the morning, but also wake with the same sort of rosy afterglow you’d usually associate with a post-coital surge of endorphins.

Before I get to the dream though… Full disclosure, it’s bookended by another story, and yes, I know I’ve gone a bit Ronnie Corbett this week.

So. It was June 2020 and I received an email from a publicist offering goodies in exchange for a social post or two. If folks want to shower me with freebies, who am I to refuse?

The important bit of the email read as follows:

In celebration of the launch of the first ever audio adaptation of The Sandman, Audible and DC would like to gift you early access to “Drawings from The Dreaming,” personalized artwork that depicts your dreams, illustrated by a team of esteemed comic artists, some of whom contributed to the seminal graphic novel. We know you're a fan of comics so we thought this might be of interest!

The Sandman’s original illustrators will transform your dream into shareable, custom artwork. You will be among the first to receive a custom artwork, and the campaign will launch nationally to consumers on July 8.

Immediately I knew the dream I wanted them to draw for me. It was a dream I remember more fondly than most of my actual memories. So I replied to the publicist with all haste, offering them a detailed account of my dream, in order they be equipped to produce as faithful a rendering of it as possible.

A couple of lines, they said, would be sufficient. A couple of lines? Not bloody likely. Eventually, I sent them the following:

I rarely remember my dreams but this one was too good to forget. I used to go to sleep thinking about it, hoping I'd dream it again, because it made me so happy.

I'm a nerd. A collector. Back before the internet made everything almost instantly available, finding cool collectibles was more of a hunt. Trawling through old comic shops, or collectors' markets, you'd sometimes find the greatest stuff, things you just that moment discovered existed, yet knew with sudden, absolute certainly that from that moment on, you couldn't live without. There was a joy to discovery back then and my dream plugged me back into that.

So I'm in an old store. A mom-and-pop roadside sort of situation that you see in old Hollywood movies. It's remote and rarely visited. The pop's long gone, I think, and I'm chatting with the mom who says that soon she's closing down for good. All she has to do first is clear out the basement. Everything down there's going for peanuts, she says. Really she just wants it cleared, and do I want to go check it out to see if there's anything I'd like?

So now I'm walking down a rickety old wooden staircase into a decent-sized basement filled with wooden archive shelves, and on those shelves, oh my god, the vintage treasures... clockwork tin toys, ancient board games, rolls of old movie posters and magazines, golden age comics and books, wooden action figures, small statues and busts, pots of pins and other promotional merch, an old projector and boxes of vintage films reels, all of it from the '30s to the '70s and in amazing condition, of course. Just a little dust forming a protective layer, safe and sound in a dim basement lit by a few hanging bulbs and a ground level window near the ceiling. Sun's peeking in and it's like some higher power was showing me the way - not God because that's not my thing, but maybe some benevolent nerd alien.

And I'm down in that glorious basement, my jaw practically on the floor, my mind reeling at my Indiana Jones-level discovery, a cave of treasures worthy of the passphrase "open sesame", and I just know I'm going to take it all. That these wondrous things are going to pass from someone who clearly loved them to me, who'll love them maybe even more.

And then I woke up, kind of regretting that I'll never be able to physically own all that wonderful stuff, but mainly still feeling the intense joy of its discovery. And, you know, it all still exists in my head. And soon, thrillingly, on the page you're about to draw!

My email dispatched, I began to dream of the art I’d receive. Perhaps a play on the climactic warehouse scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark?

Only more intimate, with more discernible stuff, rather than just endless rows of mystery crates. So for additional context, I sent them links to a bunch of useful images, like this photo of me:

Finally off the breast!

And these shots of my collection:

And then I waited, and waited, with some impatience, and growing excitement. And finally they sent me this:

This.

At first I thought they must have sent me the wrong image, because for starters, I’m not a punky, 13-year-old girl. Also, I would never sit on a comicbook, let alone precious vintage treasures. And finally, well, I mean, just look at it. It’s not my dream. Not even close, or even distantly.

I emailed the publicist:

I think maybe you sent me a link to someone else's dream? This doesn't match what I wrote, unless I misunderstood the exercise? 

She quickly replied:

This is the correct link! The way the artist interpreted your dream is that you're the person in the background walking down the stairs of the old store, and the character in the front is Delirium from The Sandman. 

So sorry if it isn't exactly what you were expecting, the artists take creative liberty with these.

I probably seem super ungrateful, but I was genuinely gutted. And not shy about expressing it:

I’m not really sure how to take this as the artist’s creative liberties have rendered it as unrecognisable to me as if he’s illustrated someone else’s dream. And adding Sandman characters just seems blatantly promotional. And the character that’s supposed to be me isn’t even bald! I want to help and appreciate you reaching out to me with this idea, but I’m just really disappointed.

Diplomatically, the publicist rounded off our communication with the following:

We're very sorry you're disappointed in the artwork. These illustrations were meant to celebrate The Sandman, as well as be an original illustration. No pressure at all to post the artwork, and thank you for participating!

Needless to say, I never heard from them again. Nor did I ever post the artwork, until now. I’m sure I seem grumpy and ungrateful. That’s accurate: I was, and remain, grumpy and ungrateful.

I shared with them a perfect, private moment and they just chewed it up and crapped out a crass, ugly advert for their bullshit radio thing. I suppose it was naive of me to expect more, but how could I resist the offer to turn that joyful dream into a tangible treasure?

It’s still in my head, though. Clear as day. And it warms me, and makes me happy.

What’s the best dream you ever had?