The Dream Academy

I’m at concert, but I can’t see the stage. I’m shoving my way through the crowd until I’m at the foot of the stage and see Tim Finn. He seems to recognize me and pulls me onstage. He tells me we’re going to duet XTC’s Ten Feet Tall. We start and I’m letting him hit the high notes while I stick with the gravelly parts. The crowd seems to love it, but when I look over at Mr. Finn, I can tell something is very, very wrong. I mouth the words, ‘what’s wrong?’

I can see his lips pantomime the words ‘you can’t sing.’

I wake up laughing. I have the worst reoccurring dream in the world. Phantasms of Tori Amos, Bob Mould, Kelly Clarkson, and Sinead O’Connor have all told me that I can’t sing. But still, my id persists in putting me on stage to be deflated again and again. For the record, Sinead was the rudest: A wall of bricks, indeed.

I look at the clock. It’s just before midnight. Stockhom is still asleep.

I get up and go to the bathroom to micturate. As I’m standing there and playing with the stream, I think about my HIV patient. I call the nurse to ensure the urine studies have been sent to the lab, then crawl back into bed with Stockholm.