Hello there! Let me tell you about my current dream – enlisting 1,000 paying supporters so that I can survive as a solo creator and make my work financially sustainable. Please help me get there?Yes, I want to help
This time last year, I started dreaming weird dreams. Most of them felt like badly scripted Indiana Jones-meets-Jason Bourne movies. In one dream that I later wrote about, I was in the Andamans as part of a team of anthropologists. Our mission was to establish contact with an isolated and fearsome tribe known to hunt down intruders with arrows.
The dream was replete with campy action: putting on camouflage; frenzied running on a sparkling, sandy beach by the light of the moon; hiding behind bushes; and much nervous shushing by our group leader. No, we couldn't spot the tribe. I remember waking up and immediately feeling regret, as if I had left a very important task unfinished.
As it happens, I've been to the Andamans twice, including Christmas 2004 when our family vacation coincided with the Indian Ocean tsunami. But this particular dream wasn't about my fear of water and earthquakes.
Rather, it fit into a series of dreams that had become something of a pattern during lockdown. I was lost in Europe without money. I was hiding from a serial killer in a minority ghetto in New Zealand. I was enslaved by a wealthy trader in Mumbai, till his wife – who’s my wife IRL – conspired to set me free.