I had the most languorous and self-satisfying dream the other night I can ever recall. A dream worthy of sharing with my readers.
It began when I was watching the Kardashians on television. There was a knock on the door. It was the Purolator guy with a large box addressed to me. After carrying it inside, I could not imagine what it might be. The shipper’s address was written in an Oriental language so that didn’t help. I carefully unwrapped it to discover a beautiful Fender guitar, a Malibu Classic style with a magnetic blue finish. My name was emboldened onto it in gold, calligraphy lettering.
I’ve never played such an instrument, let alone strummed one. I gingerly removed it and held it properly, I think. When my fingers touched the strings a tingling in them made me jump back. What could be happening? I then spotted an envelope. Its enclosed note read:
“This is a magical guitar. You only have to touch the chords, think of a melody and it will play it perfectly — as if you are in control.”
I thought of a few songs like Free Falling and Me and Bobby McGee and sure enough the guitar played the tunes perfectly with my fingers working the chords effortlessly. I played more songs before I deliberated singing the lyrics too, utilizing that voice of mine that’s been discovered and honed at the Whitewater Singers group. It was no longer flat like it had been for all those years. Both playing and singing along in tandem was so joyous that I did so for hours.
Eager as a bridegroom, I was as determined to go on stage to demonstrate my skills. Talent Night at the Hall was on the horizon and I registered to perform a couple of tunes. That evening, complete with my new guitar and a new pair of Levi jeans, I strode onto the stage with confidence and still some modesty – and performed for the first time. The audience, surprised at seeing me, quickly became astounded and accepting of the new me. I was the hit of the night and quite pleased with myself. I tried to answer all the questions peppered at me, like, “How did this happen?” or “Why did you wait so long?” If I had been transparent, who could believe that? I was still basking in glory a week later when Festival Hall called to see if I would sub for an act that went off the rails. My aspirations were on right on track.
I knew I was legit when the National Arts Centre in Ottawa created an opening for a one-off performance. After that, those who still hadn’t heard of this new Phenom were all googling for news about him. But more work had to be done. I needed a stage name and decided it would be “Bobby Gee”. I then hired an agent. He suggested that I get known in Austin, Texas, the music capital of the world initially. A one-week trip was planned. Up to this point my partner Sheila was happy for me. Now she was a little worried about where it might be leading.
While in Austen, I did some gigs, met dozens of other singers as well as local residents, actress Sandra Bullock and the leather-faced Dan Rather, a well-known news correspondent. This led to a proposition for a whirl-wind six-month world tour and heaps of money. I wanted Sheila with me as much as possible but she was terrified of flying. A plan was hatched that before each of her visits to join me, she would be drugged and so never fear flying again.
My childhood goal of owning a penthouse suite overlooking Central Park in New York City was within reach. It took much convincing and conniving to get Sheila to agree to move there but she eventually gave in. Settling into a permanent home, I was able to be more selective about live appearances and now had free time to figure out how to become a big-shot in the big city.
However all good things come to an end. My cat jumping onto the bed wrested me out of my deep slumber and that enchanted dream I wished would never end, did. It was whimsical for sure, a once-in-a-lifetime dream never to be forgotten. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was still living it. This dream-like stage lasted most of the day and recurred over the few days like a ghost hungering for his past.
I came to understand promptly, as in the words of Mark Twain: “The reports of my success are greatly exaggerated.”
