Quit Dreaming…

It has been playing on my mind so much lately, it was in my dreams this morning. I haven’t dreamed of him for some time.

The scenario was…backstage, at a soundcheck. Myself and a few other female fans. I’m unsure how I even got to be there given how the dream panned out.

He was being doted on and fussed over, and he was enjoying himself immensely, thank you very much. Until I said something and his face soured. I didn’t say anything particularly crass or dodgy or anything – but the look of disdain on his face was hard – well, impossible – for him to disguise.

And that was it. I out and out asked him “you really don’t like me very much, do you?” Nothing. He said nothing. Just a kind of shrug and a look that said “I have no words.”

One of the other ladies around says something to him and he smiles away and flirts with her. I respond. “See! This is the thing! Well, you could have at least sugar-coated it! …’Don’t be daft. Why would you think that?’ … Your silence tells me everything I need to know.”

“What do you want me to say?”, he says.

“Have I upset you? Tell me what it is.” I awoke before any answer was forthcoming. Would he have given one? [and an answer!! Boom boom! – yeah, I’m my own worst enemy and probably the reason he DOES hate my guts] Do I just take it that the answer will be “you’re too ‘in your face’. Too annoying, too demanding, too pestering, too…you”.

Yes. It’s only a dream. But apart from the scenario of being backstage, the rest of it felt very real. Lucid…

Was I upset in the dream? Of course! He was making no bones about how he was feeling about my presence there. I didn’t cry in his face. I try to possess some modicum of dignity – despite how it looks!

Have I awoken upset? Yes…probably much more so than I allowed him to see in the dream.

I wish it didn’t play on my mind so much. And I REALLY, REALLY WISH that I didn’t give two fucks. But I do.

I do.

Thanks For Asking, Dana.

Yeah. Because some of us only miss you every second of every day and are made to feel like a sychotic lunatic for asking/enquiring/saying about it endlessly.

So…I look in on FB for the first time in nearly a week, and it just compounds everything I have been feeling lately.

I honestly do not know what I did…what I have done. I just feel like I am absolutely persona non grata. Someone within the SM ranks somewhere…Jim himself. I dunno.

It just used to be the thing that made me feel alive. Happy. Upbeat. The one thing that brightened my day. It was just so…

It was just…everything.

I can’t explain it properly and I am so tired of going over it again and again and again.

The whole “real fans” thing in the summer of 2018 – I thought that was breaking my frigging heart – but whatever is happening now…whatever I am feeling now? It feels 100 fold. I keep waiting for the end. I keep waiting for point when…it’ll stop hurting…or…he’ll just say something or…just something. That something will change, something will improve, or I’ll just finally “move on”.

In my head…in my eyes, the last image I have of him looking at me is in Copenhagen, and me doing that stupid thing of pointing at the banana on my shirt – something I normally wouldn’t do (point to myself or just…try to get his attention) and I just see the look on his face and the tears sting my eyes, because I feel like a fucking idiot.

And so, YES! I am wondering how the fuck he is all the fucking time – but if I expressed that, I’d be deemed a clingy fucking saddo and have this Maris Piper shithead on my back.

So I stay away. I keep away. And I don’t know genuinely if it is helping or making things worse.

This time tomorrow…had things all been as normal…before the world of lockdown and Corona, I’d be at a meet and greet in Bordeaux. Would I have been brave enough to ask? Would I have needed to ask? What I have remembered to ask? Or, as usual, be rendered fucking dumbstruck. Do I just end up with Jim Kerr the actor?

Does it cut me up this much worrying if David Bowie ever would have liked me or not? Of course not!

I try to explain this as best I can but I just lose it every time.


My own headspace. My own inability to get out of what seems to “help”. It’s habitual. Like a drug. He’s a drug I can’t escape. My heroin.

My life. My wife.

Lou. He’s your bard.

Sweet irony…