This morning's soundtrack: "Look Up" by Stars

There are incarnations of James Dean in every high school, and in mine, it was this guy who openly smoked Marlboro Reds and wore long-sleeve flannel shirts and shit-kickers. He was a musician, a writer, a ladie's man, a guy's guy, the reluctant teacher's pet. He was accepted both in the upper echelons of academia and in the drugged-out shadows of auto-shop. And I thought, what it would be like him, to be so confident, to be so respected, to be able to get away with things.

I ended up working with him in the school newspaper. I was intimidated by him and mightily sought his approval. But I quickly realized something was wrong. He didn't move like me, or other kids, that is, with little self-possession, with only the beginnings of our adult strides. He moved in a series of well rehearsed poses that were never meant to be seen in the close quarters of a journalism class with a midnight deadline. He didn't speak, he announced. He didn't think, he mused. But he was a lousy person to work with. He was late. He flirted with deadlines the way he would try to manipulate 10th grade girls.

But first impressions count.

He showed up in my dream last night. We were on the streets of Jogjakarta in Indonesia. He asked me what I was up to.

"Nothing, really," I said.

"You know, when we were in high school, I thought you were going to make something of yourself."

And there I was, again, age 15, looking up to him, seeking his nod and pat on the back.

But maybe things do change. I smiled at him. I said, "Well, just wait a couple months. You'll see."

This is the funny thing about dreams. They reveal the things you believe way deep down, the stuff that sometimes can't rise through the more conscious layers of your self. This morning I checked my email and got good news.