Anyway, so I was somewhere with Sam, she wasn't saying much but she sure did look purty. I was thinking of all the things that I was supposedly doing with my life; finishing plays, finding fables for Czech puppet shows, features as yet unwritten, Bardflys, Post-Grad (UTS vs RMIT?)Melbourne (including subcategories - if/ how to move, how to open Bar di Fonzi's on Brunswick St., etc.)
Suddenly, I found this book. Can't remember the title, but I know it was a hardback with a dusty cover (Dusty Cover; good character name?)
This book, somehow, this book ('this book' should be pronounced as by Christopher Walken in Pulp Fiction saying 'this watch' with all the image evoking grasp of Stanislavski Method,) this book had the answer to all my problems. The solution to everything. The big gig in one big hit. Somehow this imaginary book solved all my problems. It was quite a relief. At last.
Upon waking, and realising that I couldn't remember the title, or any of the contents, I was quite annoyed. My first word of the day rhymed with "You luckety lucky duck," but meant nothing like it.
I realise now that the whole point is that the book doesn't actually exist. That I have to write it. Like those films I dreamt of. In a sense we all have to write the book that solves all our problems. Every day we do it.
As Elvis Costello said, "everyday I write the book...." (blah, blah, lah, self help bollocks.)
Ironically, he said using an often misused term, by the time we got it written it's time to shuffle off this mortal coil as it were. Death is a kind of publication... (Blah, blah, blah, arty poetic nihilistic crap.)
Anyway, Sam's dandy pancakes are ready... I can smell them... Salute.
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