Epilogue to a Dream

Once, you had a dream

And you had a song 

That went with the dream

And then the dream died

So sad

Then later, one day

You remember that song

And you think "how will it sound?

Beyond my dream's death?"

And so you listen

And it's not quite the same

Obviously

Le Voyageur

The first glimmer of awareness caused him to flex and wriggle his fingers. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and for a moment he thought his world had turned blue. He realised he was lying on his back, looking up at the sky. Following on from this realization, the next challenge he faced would be to sit up - and that would not be straightforward - he was wearing a spacesuit. When the size of this challenge sank in he was not inclined to do anything for a while, and he lay on his back looking upwards, with a feeling that he was floating through the depths of an endless cerulean Universe. A feeling of peacefulness descended. Eventually, however, this feeling faded away, and was replaced by the urge to survive, and to move on, and to discover. He had always been this way.

And so he began to rock backwards and forwards. As he did this he began to pick up momentum until he rocked himself to his feet. Following this he stumbled and swayed a couple of times as he almost over compensated and threatened to send himself back to square one. But eventually he felt his feet lodge themselves on the surface of whatever country he now stood upon, and he was able to take in his surroundings for the first time.

He stood upon a sandy landscape that stretched for miles around, and rippled like the ocean on a calm day, and was pockmarked with stones and boulders. A light breeze pushed against the fabric of his spacesuit, and on the horizon he could make out the shapes of hills and mountains that could not be discerned with real clarity, but instead appeared but as shadows; thus giving the impression that they were almost not really there, and that however much one tried to approach them these ephemeral peaks would never get any nearer.

But there was a feature of this landscape that appeared as very real. Without thinking he took a step towards it; and everything changed.

The deep blue sky disappeared as day turned to dusk; and he saw that above him the unsleeping stars and a crescent Moon shone forth. The stars and the moon highlighted two huge structures that he now looked towards, and the sudden change in the state of the world made them stand out even more starkly now against their impalpable background. It was difficult to make out whether he was looking at a pair of huge sculptures or two towers that had been worn away and shaped by the wind and erosion of centuries upon centuries, until they looked like the figures of people.

He walked towards them, and he found that the motion of his gait was smooth, swift and effortless; and it felt strangely like he was skating across the rippling sand towards the buildings or statues that grew in stature and size, and in doing so became more ominous as the moments passed. He quickly discovered that he did not have to think about the strange nature of his motion, but instead could give his attention to the structures that he approached, and the sounds that began to reach his ears.

If one were to take it that they were sculptures of people, then the people that these statues had been modeled upon had been bowed by troubles or toils, or the deep thoughts that they pondered, or perhaps a combination of all three. The figure on the left was perhaps the shorter of the two, and its figure was pockmarked with oblong openings that may have served as huge portals or windows in a castle. The figure on the right was slimmer, and its back was smoothly curved, and next to it was situated a ruined archway. Both figures cast long shadows, and both of them looked downwards - perhaps at the same spot - and vegetation grew about them and from them, and about their heads birds were flying.

At the same time he took in these details he could hear the wind blowing, though it sounded stronger than it felt to his encapsulated body. And voices could also be heard, that echoed in his consciousness. He could not quite make out the words that were spoken, but he had an impression that they had to be very profound.

He saw two people - real people - up ahead.

There was a man standing next to small boy who he took to be the man's son. With one hand the man held the boy's hand, with the other he waved and gestured towards the structures that drew ever closer. The man's lips were moving and, as he passed them, he wondered whether what the man was saying formed part of the echoing dialogue that took place in his ears and in his mind. It was difficult to tell. The traveler moved on.

Now he was beneath the structures themselves. Despite the limitations placed upon his movement by the spacesuit, he managed to briefly look upwards. From this position the faces of the figures looking down upon him were like oval voids of opaque darkness in the twilight, and were framed by the constellations that twinkled in the firmament.

He heard a ringing sound.

The sound was coming from the tower to his right, as he approached the two sculptures. He noticed both towers had doorways, and he moved towards the doorway from which the sound emanated. The ringing he heard was truncated and regular, and it struck him as both anachronistic - because it was so out of place in this strange world - and old fashioned, because it was the sound of a technology that was long outdated.

He entered the structure and saw that it was a bare, vaguely rounded enclosure featuring a spiral staircase that climbed the walls and disappeared into the darkness above. The only other feature inside the structure was a desk; and upon this desk there sat a ringing, antique telephone. Except it was not quite a telephone: because instead of a receiver, it had a lobster.

He looked at it, ringing, and resisted the urge to pick up the lobster and position the crustacean over his ear.

Who would do this? He wondered to himself; who would replace the receiver of a telephone with a lobster?

But there was someone. Yes, he realised - there was a man who would do such a thing ...

And then he had passed through the building, or sculpture, and out the other side; past ancient stone pillars steeped in greenery, and on to the wide expanse beyond.

The ringing faded, and a new sound reached him - it was the sound of singing. The voice he heard was pure, almost angelic, and he shivered inside his spacesuit when he considered what this might imply.

In the distance, he saw what looked like a young woman dancing in the twilight, and he realised it was she whose voice he could hear.

One part of him wanted to approach the woman and speak to her. But he did not, because the way she moved disturbed him, as did the sound of her voice, and her ephemeral substance which was like the hills and mountains behind her. It was with relief that he spotted another object out into the plains, and he made for that instead.

As he drew nearer to it, he saw this new object was a stripey red, purple and white deckchair for the seaside that faced away from the two huge structures shaped like people. He also saw it was occupied. When he reached the chair he found himself looking down at a middle-aged man who wore a loose fitting suit, and brandished a cane that he held upright on the sandy ground. He had black hair that was slicked back, but by far his most distinctive feature was his moustache, that stretched out on either side of his nose and ended in long, tapered points.

"Senor Dali," he whispered in disbelief.
Dali looked up and smiled. "Exactement!" he exclaimed. "And you are?"
"A traveler," Said the traveler.
"Ah, good!" Dali boomed with an approving nod. He did not seem to require any further explanation.
"This appears to be your world," the traveler observed.
"Yes!" agreed Dali, "Amazing is not it?"
"It certainly is," Said the traveler, "absolutely incredible, though I have no idea how I got here."
"Where were you before you got here?" Dali asked.
This question made the traveler stagger and raise his hand to his helmet, as the question from the surrealist triggered a flood of memories that threatened to saturate his mind. "I was traveling in space ..." he managed to say.
"You're a spaceman!" Dali exclaimed in wonder.
"I passed beyond the limits of the solar system;" the astronaut recalled, "the first human being to do so. But not long after I left the Heliopause behind my instruments picked up signals from a black hole. It had never been discovered, and by the time I knew it was there it was already too late. I remember being stretched and crushed and agony beyond anything I could imagine. I thought the end had come. And then I found myself here. "
He looked around the world of the man that sat in the deck chair before him. "It's feels so strange to recall where I was before now I'm here ..."
"The Persistence of Memory," Dali remarked.
"Ha! Yes," the traveler agreed with rueful nod.
They fell into a comfortable silence, and listened to the voices that whispered upon the wind.
"So," Dali said eventually, "this is your purgatory, do you think?"
"I guess it could be," mused the traveler, "Either that or they found a way to get me out of there, and this is some kind of coma dream."
"Or perhaps you fell into the black hole," offered Dali, "And while we speak your body is hovering at the event horizon of a singularity as the laws of physics and nature break down around you. And there you will stay; trapped in the moment of transition between life and death, until the end of time."
"I do not think I like the sound of that," said the astronaut unhappily.
"Gah!" Dali exclaimed with a careless wave, "You are an explorer - embrace it!"
"That's easier said than do -" the traveler began.
Without warning the ground shook; and Salvador Dali and clapped his hands with joy. "¡Los elefantes bonitos!" he called out, "My beautiful pachyderms!"

From out of nowhere a herd of huge creatures had appeared right before the two observers: a parade of gigantic elephants with impossibly long and spindly legs above which pale, floating obelisks stretched into the starlit sky. The multi-jointed limbs of the impossible animals lifted and dropped, propelling their great loads forward and causing mini-earthquakes when they crashed back to earth.

The traveler would have marveled and expressed joy at the appearance of another of Dali's creations that suddenly filled the expansive plain they looked out into, were it not for the fact that one of the elephants loomed above them, and he realised they were directly in its path.

"Shouldn't... er, shouldn't..." the astronaut stammered, trying to suppress the sudden panic that assailed him, "Shouldn't we think about getting out of the way?"
"Gah!" Dali exclaimed again dismissively above the din of the herd, "We are perfectly safe. They will not harm us!"
"They- they won't?" asked the traveler uncertainly.
"Actually I don't know," Dali chortled, "I sincerely hope not!" With that he burst out laughing, and then the monstrous pachyderm was upon them.
As they saw its massive foot descend towards them like an Imperial Walker, the astronaut shut his eyes tightly and mumbled to himself, "I wish I'd been an IT consultant ..."
And then his voice was drowned out by a series of fresh earthquakes, and the earsplitting trumpeting of the creatures as they communicated with one another.

For a few seconds his world was filled with darkness and noise and fear as his eyes remained shut tight, and he again waited for his end to come, and he whispered his invocations for a more mundane career.

It took a further few seconds to register that the sounds had faded somewhat.

The astronaut opened an eye. Then he opened the other. He turned to see the elephant that had walked over them already receding, its great spindly legs carrying the creature and its towering, levitating obelisk away from them in an ungainly but swift gait.

"See, what did I tell you?" laughed the surrealist. "That's a relief!"
"Well ..." Said the traveler, collecting himself, "I think I might go and see what's inside your other tower over there."
Dali approved of this idea. "The Archaeological Reminiscence? Yes, you should look! Go! Go and explore!"
The traveler nodded. "I will take my leave of you then," he said, "It was great to meet you, Senor Dali."
"Igualmente," replied the master fondly, "Fare thee well, spaceman."
"Thank you," said the traveler.

He turned back and made his way towards the human like structures that he now knew to be huge recreations of one of Dali's most famous artworks, his motion as he traveled still smooth and curiously dreamlike. He headed towards the slightly shorter and more "chunky" of the two figures. Inside the other structure he had found the lobster telephone. What would be in this one?

His answer came initially in the form of the sound of music. This was not part of the curious background noise he had encountered in this world, and it was not like the hypnotic singing of the dancing woman that had so haunted him. He realised as he drew close that this was another unexpected anachronism. It was psychedelic rock and roll!

The traveler entered the second structure, and again found himself in a roughly circular chamber that enclosed the the cavernous interior. Upon his entry the volume of the music increased: harmonizing electric guitars with sitars over which a Lennon-like voice was warbling imprecations of love and peace. He saw a translucent man whose entire being was a kaleidoscope of colours like a rainbow. The translucent man was dressed like a 1960s dropout, sitting cross legged and rotating slowly in midair. When the man saw the traveler his face lit up. "Hey dude," he called out, "are you an astronaut?"
"I am," replied the astronaut.
"That's totally fab!" exclaimed the hippy with glee, "How did you get here?"
"Fell into a black hole," Said the astronaut.
The hippy hooted and slapped his thigh. "That's the freakiest thing I've ever heard!"
"How about you? How did you get here?" the traveler asked.
"By a not so dangerous route," laughed the hippy "We were meditating with our guru in Nepal, ya know, and I took something to help me open my mind out a bit? One minute I'm sitting on a mountainside surrounded by yaks, and the next thing I know I'm here! It just blows my mind, man!
"But still," the hippy concluded wistfully, "I wish I'd been an astronaut ..."
"We both ended up in the same place," the astronaut pointed out.
"Hey yeah, that's true!" the hippy acknowledged joyfully, "Just think, the drugs do work after all!"
"They certainly do."
The traveler leaned back so he could view the winding staircase that climbed up to the structure. "Well," he announced vaguely, "I guess I'll walk up there and take a look at the sky ..."
"Great idea!" the hippy enthused, "Say hello to Lucy for me!"
"I will."

He began to ascend the stairs, and as he did so, the psychedelic sounds that accompanied his encounter with the sixties dropout faded, and the unworldy sounds of Dali's dreams reasserted themselves. As he climbed higher he found he could look upwards, seemingly unhampered by his spacesuit, and as the summit of the structure grew smoothly and inexorably closer, he felt like a phoenix, rising from the ashes; or like Lazarous.

Finally he stood on a platform that was formed from the shoulder of the giant. Above him the sky brightened and dimmed, and the moon and stars rose and set in the space of a few minutes. Across the wide open spaces of the plane below him he could see the long shadows cast by Millet's Angelus that mingled with the shadows of Dali's elephants, which marched to their mysterious destination and trumpeted to each other. And the voice of Dali himself whispered in the ear of the astronaut with words that veered in and out of definition. "Live, in one dream ..."

He found himself thinking of his family, and feelings of warmth and love overwhelmed him.

And then he heard another, faint voice, so distant it could have traveled across the Universe. It was filled with static and interference, and it broke through into his perception as if leaking through a hole in reality.

Ground control to Major Tom

Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Can you hear me, Major Tom ...

And he closed his eyes. "Yes, I can hear you, Ground Control," he whispered in reply, "And I hope you will hear me, in times to come". He smiled faintly, "if memory persists ...

"This is Major Tom, signing out."

Dedicated to Dali and Bowie, all the dream weavers that inspired them, and all those they will inspire.

And for Don

"Dreams of Dali 360^o": https://youtu.be/F1eLeIocAcU

Here's Where the Story Ends

The apartment was just as I remembered it. An expansive living room that looked out upon a lush green landscape. A desirable living space, and yet empty and neglected, as if its owner was a bachelor who was wrapped up in other things, aside from domestic bliss. But the cat was there, and she looked at me impatiently; affectionate and yet exasperated - maybe because of something I had or hadn't done? Perhaps she had a point. I still missed her.

There was a knock at the door. "Wait there," I told the cat and went to answer.

At the door there stood a tall man in a dark suit. He wore sunglasses and an expression of severity on his craggy features. "May I come in?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I replied nervously, "are you one of the Men in Black?"

"No. But you would, I'm sorry to say, consider me to be something worse," he said, "I am in fact from the Ministry of Creativity."

"The Ministry of what?!"

"Creativity," The Man repeated patiently, "May I come in?" he asked me again. Though still in a state of confusion I stepped back and opened the door wider; The Man in the black suit swept in carrying a brief case.

We took a seat at a large round, glass table in the middle of my living room. It was the kind of table I would have liked to have in my living room but never did. As I sat down, I saw that an object was lying on the table in front of me: it was a wristband that was made from brown, smooth, strung together beads. I remembered it had been given to me as a parting gift at a rock festival, but I had lost it long ago. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, and something occurred to me: "I'm dreaming."

"Yes you are", confirmed The Man from the ministry as he took the opposite seat to my own, "this is where we make our client calls. In dreams."

"And what is the purpose of this call?" I asked him.

In response The Man put the brief case that he had been carrying on the table in front of me.  The two catches that served as the release mechanism sprang open, and from the case he passed me a document. "Here you are," he told me, "this is the next story that you are going to write."

"Oh right," I said as he handed me the article, "and why is it being delivered to me like this? I can't remember having any calls from the Ministry of Creativity before."

The agent regarded me expressionlessly through his dark glasses. "That's because this story will be the last story that you will ever write. There will be no more. Your creative licence has expired."

I gazed back at him blankly. "My creative licence? Has expired?!" I said in confusion.

The Man took this opportunity to explain. "Every living being is born with a certain consignment of creativity. You may use this creativity in different ways: writing stories, formulating theories, painting pictures, designing machines and so forth. But when its gone its gone I'm afraid. Also, in these times of austerity, we've had to make cuts to existing consignments. Therefore the remaining creativity in your consignment has been reallocated to a more high achieving recipient."

I looked at the file in front of me, feeling an ache within as I listened to these words, as if something was being torn from my soul. "No more stories?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not."

"What about poems?"

"No, none of those either. Or lyrics. Or music. Or jokes."

I scratched my head, trying to take in the enormity of what he was saying. "no more drawings?"

He had to think about this one for a moment. "Doodles should be OK," he decided, "but you'll have to stick to the tried and tested ones. Like the cubes and the aeroplanes you like to draw."

"What about random little tunes popping up inside my head?" I asked

"Sorry."

"And what about problem solving?"

"You'll have to get advice," answered The Man from the ministry, "That shouldn't trouble you too much - you have to get advice on plenty of stuff from day to day as it is. Now you'll just have to do it a bit more."

I sat there for a bit longer, still stunned and still struggling to comprehend. An empty life was stretching out in front of me. "Are you alright?" The Man from the ministry asked in a perfunctory tone.

"I... " it seemed difficult to articulate myself in this harsh unreality, in this dream that was not a dream. "But what about all the stories I will never write?" I managed to ask, "What if someone saw them and was inspired? Even one person? How... how do you know?..."

"The answer is we don't," the government representative admitted, "I mean, what if we make cuts to healthcare and someone dies because of it? We might have cut healthcare to fund the building of weapons, and then many people would die. That is the responsibility of government. And life is cruel."

I nodded mechanically, feeling crushed and resigned, and considered the document that had been presented to me. "Is it a good story?" I asked.

At this the The Man's expression softened somewhat. "I believe you will be pleased with the idea when writing it," he told me, "but in the future such things will be not be easy to judge, as you will find the story difficult to revisit; after all, it is your last one."

I nodded and looked down at the document again. "Here's where the story ends..." I mused.

"Hmm," said The Man, "that's a reference to a song isn't it? Very appropriate. That's what you should call it. You like doing that kind of thing."

I shrugged, but as I looked the words "Here's Where the Story Ends" formed on the cover of the document.

"Well, that's settled then," said The Man from the Ministry, "And now I must leave." He stood up.

I looked up at him, one last question lingering in my mind. "Is there a Ministry of Silly Walks?"

The only reply I got was an echoing beat, as of approaching thunder. The drumbeat became louder and louder, until it filled my mind, and I found myself becoming conscious. I opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by darkness. Beyond the windows of my room a car was driving down the street, its sound system booming out a rhythm so loud that any music that may have accompanied it was obscured. The beat became yet louder before eventually beginning to retreat, its thunderous emanations further distorted by the Doppler effect. I rose from my bed, crossing the room to the window.

I had been dreaming, but whatever I had experienced in my unconscious mind was now fading like the last rays of an Autumn sunset. But the picture of my cat by the window reminded me that she'd been there. I was glad of this, however I got the impression my nocturnal experience had not been a happy one.

Happiness, I reflected: in an existence of pain, grief and monotony, what was it but a string of moments scattered haphazardly across a lifetime?

Just imagine, I speculated further, if there was a drug that could collect together those moments and give you one intense high...

Now that's a good idea for a story...

The Art of Dying In Your Sleep

The Country scene was as peaceful as it was empty.  It bled tranquility from the edges of the painting.  The sky was an infinite, featureless blue.  To the foreground of the painting, a hedgerow marched, right to left, into the distance; its stark, leafless thicket broken sporadically by a tall, naked tree.  Beyond the hedge there lay a scene of natural beauty that stretched to the horizon:  Rolling fields demarcated by greener hedgerows that were dotted with individual trees or small groups clustered into small woods; and in the distance, a shimmering river that wended its way to become lost in the valleys that separated the sleepy hillsides.

It would all have been perfect – a paean to the stillness and the serenity of the countryside – were it not for the devouring void that burned through the centre of the picture.   A sinkhole in the painting’s reality had opened up – a perfectly circular whirlpool of entropy that sent ripples outwards from its black heart.  The impact of the void was heightened by a Trompe-l'œil effect, which made the black hole appear at once living and vital, but also bereft of life. 

The void was consuming everything.

“A masterpiece,” commented the observer, a man named Richard Calthorpe.  He was viewing the painting from a hospital bed, the kind of bed one would lie in when being transported to an operating theatre. His black hair contrasted with his pale skin and his malnourished frame, and he was hooked up to a plasma bag and other apparatus which assisted his bodily functions.  Both patient and painting were situated in a spacious, pristine, airy room that was lit with beams of light that poured through the gaps in large, half covered windows.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’?” asked Calthorpe to the smartly dressed man who stood beside his bed.

“Indeed,” confirmed the man, whose name was Edward Borman, “as are all of the paintings in this collection.” Borman was slim of frame and sported a thin and greying head of hair, but his eyes blazed and his demeanour was commanding.

Calthorpe considered for a moment and then asked another question. “Who was the artist? What were his circumstances?”

Borman glanced down at Calthorpe before answering in an unwavering voice: “The artist was a young woman called Hope Shawcross, who was tortured to death over a number of days as this painting was created.  She died of her injuries, in her sleep, just after I decided that this painting was complete.”

Borman looked at Calthorpe again, his expression harsh.  “I take it those details don’t make you squeamish,” he said pointedly, “You are playing your full part in this project, and I assure you that Ms Shawcross was a willing party to her fate.  I commissioned her painting, and she agreed the circumstance under which she would create the Magnum Opus of her existence on Earth.

“She died for her art, in order for her life to have meaning.”

In response, Calthorpe croaked a few inaudible words before coughing and clearing his throat. “Yes… yes I understand,” he intoned, “but still the details are somewhat shocking…”

“Perhaps,” conceded Borman, “but as a volunteer for this experiment yourself, it is probable that your fate will be considered no less shocking.  Speaking of which…”

Borman made a small ‘come hither’ gesture towards the doorway of the immaculately maintained room, and Hope Shawcross’s painting was swiftly removed upon its easel by two assistants, while two more placed a new work of art in the same space as the previous one had occupied.

For a few moments the two men contemplated the brush stroked scene that was now before them.

It was a view, from above, of a man that stood upon the edge of a steep cliff.  The man was of sleek frame, was naked from the waist upwards, and his skin seemed to glow against a pitch dark background.  He was leaning forward, his heals lifting and his arms spread wide as he launched himself from the grey rocks at the edge of a cliff; he was diving into emptiness.

The cliff from which the man departed extended downwards forever.  And the blackness that pressed upon it - and into which the man was diving - was similarly infinite.  As with Hope’s painting it was the void that appeared the stronger part of the image, making the other elements fragile, transitory and ephemeral.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’,” stated Borman as he studied the painting, “but this one is your vision.”

“Yes,” said Calthorpe with a slight nod, “This is what I have seen, in the dreams you have induced.”

“Hmm,” Borman mused, “the drugs have done their job well.  This is a powerful and disturbing piece.”

At this the smartly dressed business man turned away from the painting, and he gazed at the partly covered windows, temporarily lost to the world. “But is it the vision that I will see…” he whispered to himself.  Borman raised a skeletal, callous covered hand and studied it with a look of fascination and disgust before inhaling sharply.

You have surpassed yourself Calthorpe,” he told the bed ridden artist, “this will be the finest work you will ever produce. 

“And now it is time for your medication. ”

Calthorpe’s inhalation was long, and his lip trembled slightly.  “And when I sleep this time,” he asked, “will I awaken?”

“Only if it is decided there is work still to be done upon your painting,” Borman answered, “and that decision is mine.”

Calthorpe grimaced, and opened his mouth to speak, but then the two assistants reappeared.  This time their task was to remove him.  The artist regarded his commissioner for one last time, his expression one of someone who had missed his chance to say a last goodbye, before the door was shut.  And Borman was left to consider another Magnum Opus of which he had sponsored the creation.

As Borman scrutinized the fatalistic image, a shaft of sunlight pierced the partially open curtains and temporarily illuminated the figure that was about to plunge into oblivion.

Was this a sign? Did this show that the artist’s work was done? If so Borman would give the appropriate instructions for the artist’s next dose.  And then it would be time for Calthorpe to discover the authenticity of his drug induced vision.

Borman glanced back into the sunlight, and then turned again towards the painting.

After a moment’s further deliberation, he made his decision. 

Exert From the Dream Diary - Part 2

I dreamed I was watching a movie where this guy is fighting some kind of battle in an alternative universe.  You could tell it was another universe by the way the movie was shot in a kind of sepia colour.  Anyway, I believe I enjoyed it, and it had lots of car chases, which is always good.

I was at my parents' house and I stood up and looked out through the front window at the estate where I grew up.

I saw a nuclear explosion.

"Look Vanessa," I said to my little sister, pointing at the nuclear explosion, "it's a nuclear explosion!"

As I spoke the top of the mushroom cloud detached itself from the nuclear explosion and came crashing down into the road outside my parent's house.  It looked like a bunch of giant mushrooms tied together with mud.  "Oh dear," I thought, "radioactive waste.  I'd better tell somebody".

I made my way through to my parents' kitchen where my mother was pottering about.  "Mom", I began to say, "Mom..."  I gave up and headed upstairs towards my bedroom.  On the landing I could see my father pottering about.

Radioactive waste was tearing holes in the roof of the house now, though I seemed to be more worried about that fact that the roof would now leak water when it rained than the fact that the holes were caused by radioactive waste.

But my friends were on their way to pick me up as we were going for a night out, so I walked into my room and opened my wardrobe to pick out an outfit.  I picked this very strange gold, yellow and red silk tunic with a zig zag button fastening pattern, and as I put on the tunic I felt very confident that I would look very smooth in my outfit.

I walked downstairs, looked in the mirror and recoiled in horror, as I realised the tunic did in fact make me look like Ming the Merciless from Flash Gordon.

I stomped back upstairs to find there was some guy sitting cross legged in my room.  He was burning joss sticks and rolling a joint, and I appreciated the fact that the burning incense warmed the room and compensated for the holes in the roof that had been torn open by the radioactive waste.

"Look at this outfit," I said to him in a dismayed tone, "it's not me at all!"

The guy looked me up and down and agreed.  "Someone's taken you for a right mug, pal!" he said in a heavy welsh accent.

Exerts From My Dream Diary

Dream 1
I was on my way to the football match. I was on a minibus, which was taking the strangest and most random route to the game.  We raced down cobbled streets, through buildings and down river banks.  Eventually we reached the stadium of Aston Villa FC and I disembarked.  Aston Villa’s stadium, Villa Park, looked nothing like I remembered, but I did not feel any concern.  I made my way to my seat.

It was difficult to concentrate on the football match, for more than one reason.  For a start there seemed to be many attractive ladies at the match.  For another reason, there were two guys sitting next to me who were having a loud conversation.  One of them had blond hair and seemed very angry, and he ranted and shouted a lot.  His colleague had black hair, was very cool and detached and had a European accent (could’t quite place the country).

Although the blonde haired guy seemed very angry about something, he appreciated the more laid back view of his friend.  At one point he asked his friend, “do you believe in God?”
“Hmm… Interesting…” said the dark haired guy.

I was quite annoyed by their conversation.  Deep meaning philosophical conversations aren’t meant to be had at the football, I thought, they are meant to be had at the pub.  I got up and left.

The journey home from the match was even more random than the journey to the game, and the minibus was speeding through a small picturesque village.  I could feel the fear of the driver, who was terrified that the bus would crash into a wall.  But suddenly we burst onto a river bank, and the driver lost control, and we tumbled into the dark, cold water.

I recovered and swam away from the bus, now being pursued by a herd of swimming cows.  Fortunately for me, the river was contained within high walls, like a reservoir, and I was able to hang on to a vine that grew from one of those walls as the herd of cows swam past.

I watched one of the cows, a brown cow with a big fat cow body, climb over the wall.  As it did so, we regarded each other solemnly.


Dream 2
There was a town in Alaska where all they did was have sex.  They had sex as often and with as many people as possible.  There was even a totem pole standing at the boundary of the town, featuring scenes that were a bit like the Karma Sutra, including scenes of mass orgies.  One of the girls who lived in the town had picked up a boyfriend, but he had no idea about her lifestyle.  A guy is making a documentary about this situation and is driving out to meet the boyfriend to break the bad news to him. 

“How could he not know about the way his girlfriend lives?” says the documentary maker, “There’s even a totem pole outside the town with all of those depictions!”

When the boyfriend hears the news he is very upset, as you would expect.  The rest of the documentary follows him around as he attempts to cope with the way things are.  The documentary maker grows more sympathetic towards him as time goes by.

At one point, in his frustration, the boyfriend grabs a microphone and sings a song.  Here are the words:

F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f***ck,
F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f**ck fuggidy f***ck…

A Weird Dream From A Very Long Time Ago

Basically, it involved me going back to college. Once I got there I befriended a girl with a freakish, elephant-like face. She was a bit shy and never left her room (owing to the fact she had a freakish, elephant-like face), but I got to know her and promised I would help where I could. The weirdest thing (visually) about this girl was the miniature being that lived on the surface of this girl’s face. When you looked at her, you would at first assume the being (which was cone shaped) was just another mutation on her misshapen features. Then it began to move around and you would realise it was actually a little cone-shaped being that actually lived on her face.

Now, this girl was in love with Johnny, a second year student who had been left with a hideously disfigured face after a road accident he’d had. This lad was pretty hard to find apparently (probably also a bit shy, being as how he was hideously disfigured), and I resolved to play cupid for this tragic pair.

In my dream, the girl had asked me to run an errand for her that involved three things: buy her some ladies deodorant, buy her some batteries for her personal stereo, and deliver a note in which she declared her undying love to Johnny.

I had a pint at the student bar, went to a couple of lectures (the subjects seemed so much more interesting in this additional dream year), then I went to the student shop to get the girl’s stuff. As I did these things I thought about Johnny, and how he was before that car crash had left him hideously disfigured.

I got her the batteries okay, but I got men’s deodorant instead of women’s (when I realised my mistake the queue at the counter suddenly doubled and I quite literally couldn’t be bothered to wait). I wondered round the college aimlessly for a while, looking for Johnny (without making any real effort) and then returned to the girl’s room.

The girl was, understandably, not too happy with me. I hadn’t found Johnny ("I’m sure he’ll turn up" I reassured her in a casual tone, as I tried to ignore the antics of the tiny cone shaped being as it capered across her elephantine face), and I hadn’t got her the correct deodorant ("Hey, I’ll swap it. Sometime."). I had however, managed to get her batteries, an achievement I was keen to play up ("one out of three’s better than nothing!".

The girl was not impressed. "Jeremy, you know I can’t go out, owing to the fact that I have a freakish, elephant face. If you’re going to be my friend you could at least do it properly", she scolded me. As I shrugged my shoulders and thought of excuses I was suddenly aware of a swelling that was hampering my talking and breathing. "Have you got anything to drink?" I squeaked as the problem quickly got worse. The girl departed, grumbling to her fridge to get a drink, and I reached up to my face to try and feel what the problem might be. I was shocked when the roof of my mouth came away in my hand!

When the girl returned she found me in an indignant mood. "You’re not the only one with problems you know", I scolded her in return, "I mean, look – the roof of my mouth’s just fallen out!"
"Oh, I’m sorry about that", said the girl, who found that whole thing quite surprising.