A preamble of sorts: I am a midwave Gen-Xer, i.e., born midway between Douglas Coupland and Claire Danes. Nirvana meant nada to me till after Kurt Cobain died and MTV released Nirvana's Unplugged in New York album; Nevermind and In Utero were released when I was too busy grooving on the likes of Janis, Jimi, the Doors, and the Dead to identify with the indie-rock Lollapaloozians. Kurt Cobain was born on February 20, 1967 -- a Pisces with a Cancer Moon and, like yours truly, Pluto conjunct the Ascendant.
The dream opens with me driving around the grim roadways of Florida, near where my folks used to keep an equally grim apartment so that my dad could play tennis outdoors in the winter. In my waking life, the last time I was down there was late 1992, when I was in grad school and there was a horrible family fight that nearly ended in divorce between my parents and led to my "borrowing" the rental car to drive to the clubhouse so I could call a friend and not lose what remained of my sanity.
In the dream, the roads around the Federal Highway all look the same, but I manage to find the house of a friend, a much older woman who was surrounded by younger relatives. This friend does not really exist in real life, but she is closely based on someone I recently met who seems to be part friend, part mentor. I realize I need to catch a plane back to New York, which means I have to drive back to the apartment to pack my bags and hustle to return the rental car.
On the way (at a gas station, I think), I meet Kurt Cobain. Suddenly he is at the apartment with me, admiring the astrology poster I created for my current Sunday brunch gig at a French restaurant in Soho. He finds it interesting that I do astrology, but is mostly impressed by the artwork. I tell him about some other creative projects I'm working on and complain about the crappy Chinese tablet I ordered online but is basically worthless for my particular needs.
Next scene takes place at the departures gate at the airport. I see Kurt Cobain once again, and he walks over to continue our conversation. No one seems to recognize him. I am becoming overwhelmed by his kindness, that someone like him could enter my world and care so much about what I was doing. I fall silent. He asks me if I'm doing okay; I know he knows that I cannot believe this is really happening. So I tell him about my brush with a certain someone even more famous and even more married, a celebrity who many moons ago took me out to dinner and wanted me to be his "mistress" (true waking-life story). He laughs as if he understands there was no real attraction in that experience, only curiosity on my part.
On the plane, I feel like Richard Dreyfuss in the last scene of
American Graffiti, staring out the window, exhausted but ready to fly toward his future life. I am in the first row of economy class, and I can see the top of Kurt Cobain's bright blond head in the last row of first class. Suddenly, someone on the plane realizes who is flying in their midst, and spreads the word, and a frenzied crowded rushes for him, screaming his name. Some guy waves around a Polaroid he'd just snapped of Kurt Cobain, overexposed with half of his face cut off and one red eye. I scoff, "So you have a photo of him? Big deal. I had an actual conversation with him."
When the plane lands, I walk past Kurt Cobain's empty seat and see all this stuff left behind. A young male flight attendant materializes and announces that it's all stuff for me. There is a tablet, also a manila envelope containing a letter and a song written for me "and 1 other person." I cannot re-create the song's lyrics; even in the dream, the words were blurry. The letter urges me to "keep on trying, and if it doesn't work out, you can always join me on tour in '94."
What year am I in here? There's the dream tablet acting as a reminder that it's 2016 -- but in my waking life, I often perambulate into the past. This past Sunday morning as I walked from the Broadway-Lafayette subway station to the restaurant in Soho where I have my brunch-time astrology gig, the streets were mostly empty...and even though so many of the stores were different, I felt as though I was walking into my past on Prince Street 30 years ago, when I was a moody teenager dreaming of becoming an artist and living in a loft in Soho.
Does Kurt Cobain know that he is dead? Is Kurt Cobain really dead if he is still being conjured up by so many living souls and recognized on an airplane? One water sign infiltrates another water sign's dreams as easy as pie to offer up reassurance, a song with blurred lyrics, and a possible future adventure with him in case I try but fail.
Dreams are the ultimate symbol of Pisces: effortless creativity, a movie filled with symbols that only the dreamer can truly interpret. Many people forget their dreams when the alarm intrudes into this symbolic narrative at an ungodly early hour and so-called real life begins. Others use their dreams as a compass, as inspiration, as a blog post when they do not feel like discussing the astrology of presidential candidates or yesterday's Full Moon.
"Come as you are."
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