Ian T. is a volunteer at his local Catholic church: a small, dark building in an urban street. The church itself is half-full with the props, sets and scenery for a musical he is writing: a strange, violent SF-themed production. A rehearsal is underway; I observe the bloody dematerialization of an organic-looking android figure at the end of a rousing speech. (Doubting, as I do so, whether this production will find much of an audience.) Ian tells me he wrotes Les Miserables, but sold the rights cheaply- 'for a song'- but I don't believe him... His father is also here: an alcoholic who lives in a coverted flat nearby. The walls of an old working mans' club next door have been knocked through to create a large rehearsal space, but they've run out of money to complete the renovation, and my family is thinking of acquiring the property instead.
As I leave his neighbourhood (at one stage via an Underground terminal) I find myself in the passenger seat of a car being driven by Pete Murray. We have left the rankness of the city behind us. Here, against a backdrop of green hills and open skies, are large homes with ornate and very eccentric features. Great stucco figures protrude from the roofs and walls like an English village equivalent of the Gothic follies and blimps of Gotham City. 'It's very expensive to live here,' Pete tells me; but I feel as though this is home. It's a model (at least) for a kind of reordered, aspirational lifestyle more suited to my personality.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
UFO Dream
It's the week of the Fresh Expressions expo... I am finishing up at Langley Park and moving on. A few of the gang are with me, including Greg Smith, a fine-looking man now slowly going to seed (I reflect, somewhat sadly.) I remember posing moodily on a shop-fronted square, the place where new students gather. My attitude piques the interest of one or two others... including Valerie Davis. As we sit on a bench discussing the changing demographics of Britain, young Muslims drive past, saluting aggressively.
Later I get talking with a provocatively-dressed fat girl, a Pole or Ukranian. Her, a friend, another man, my father and I squeeze into a minibus to shoot a scene for my film... A large blue craft (a spinning diamond, organic in appearance) rises from the ground and spins in the sky above our heads.
'That's the shot I want for the trailer!' I shout, feeling excited and scared at the same time.
Later I get talking with a provocatively-dressed fat girl, a Pole or Ukranian. Her, a friend, another man, my father and I squeeze into a minibus to shoot a scene for my film... A large blue craft (a spinning diamond, organic in appearance) rises from the ground and spins in the sky above our heads.
'That's the shot I want for the trailer!' I shout, feeling excited and scared at the same time.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Morrissey Dream
Two o'clock in the morning on Saturday, and my head is a mess... I'm in a state. There have been several wasted hours of masturbation, computer porn and Facebook: and a strange e-mail from a woman I met in the library. These stalker relationships have got to stop, I think to myself, working myself up into a state of concern about Enhanced Criminal Record Bureau checks, the state of the surveillance culture, and my deepest workings exposed before a jury of unsmiling female police officers.
I climb into bed, seeking recovery for my battered senses and the comfort of oblivion. When I awake two hours later I am lying on my back in a vaguely yogic posture- both legs are resting together, the knees at right angles to the rest of me; a stretching sensation that is oddly pleasurable. The effect on my mind is dramatic: I awake from my nap feeling renewed, restored to a pristine state... with the knowledge that there are faculties that need awakening, a process of slide and atrophy that must be arrested. More than anything else, I need to sing.
I am on a boat... My father and brother are both there, and three or four couples I don't recognize. My parents have wired up a karaoke machine to curb my notorious temper, to keep me sane, to bring out the best of me in a difficult world. My song selections are drawn from a cassette or cartridge called 'The Best of Morrissey'... I remember snapping into the microphone- 'Bloody buggery!'- which draws no reaction from my father except sage-like patience... He seems to know what makes me tick, what calms me down.
I sing a song similar to (but not) 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out'. Despite being well-received by the others on board, I am unsatisfied... The next singer, however, an Irish man (on the cruise with his wife) assures me the performance has generated a good atmosphere. Everybody seems either to be having sex or drinking heavily. 'When you've been asked for a drink three times and you speak as little of the lingo as we do,' he jokes, 'you know they're drunk.'
'Oh I know,' I say, still in character. 'I could kill for a lager... die for a lager.'
I climb into bed, seeking recovery for my battered senses and the comfort of oblivion. When I awake two hours later I am lying on my back in a vaguely yogic posture- both legs are resting together, the knees at right angles to the rest of me; a stretching sensation that is oddly pleasurable. The effect on my mind is dramatic: I awake from my nap feeling renewed, restored to a pristine state... with the knowledge that there are faculties that need awakening, a process of slide and atrophy that must be arrested. More than anything else, I need to sing.
I am on a boat... My father and brother are both there, and three or four couples I don't recognize. My parents have wired up a karaoke machine to curb my notorious temper, to keep me sane, to bring out the best of me in a difficult world. My song selections are drawn from a cassette or cartridge called 'The Best of Morrissey'... I remember snapping into the microphone- 'Bloody buggery!'- which draws no reaction from my father except sage-like patience... He seems to know what makes me tick, what calms me down.
I sing a song similar to (but not) 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out'. Despite being well-received by the others on board, I am unsatisfied... The next singer, however, an Irish man (on the cruise with his wife) assures me the performance has generated a good atmosphere. Everybody seems either to be having sex or drinking heavily. 'When you've been asked for a drink three times and you speak as little of the lingo as we do,' he jokes, 'you know they're drunk.'
'Oh I know,' I say, still in character. 'I could kill for a lager... die for a lager.'
Friday, 12 June 2009
Football fragment...
England are playing Germany in the World Cup final. Some friends and I are anxious to know the result. I queue up with a Communion wafer at a check-out in a late night store; believing somehow that its purchase and consumption can affect the outcome of the game... The place I am staying in is semi-rural; and the night sky is illuminated by many strange lights, which hover and dance like a conclave of aliens gathering to observe the match. Gradually, like the all-clear after a bombing raid, news begins to emerge. It's nil-nil at the end of extra time; a result which (according to the rules of dreamland football) will trigger an England victory if they don't concede a goal. A group of crusties are camping out under the stars, and an assortment of glamourous student-types, possibly swingers, are sharing my digs.
The stars twinkle... An England win? I am jubilant, yet crestfallen too. These are days I had longed to witness, yet now they have arrived it doesn't feel like I thought it would. Now the dawn is breaking too quickly; revealing the mysterious lights to be mere aeroplanes, the hipster swingers icy and distant. A short, elfin girls celebrates with her friend, taking photographs. As I drive back into town, my van veers all over the road. I mistime my attempt at parking, overshooting the space and colliding with a stationary black vehicle in front. I manage to regain control and bring the vehicle to a stop, but realise with mounting horror that the car park I have ended up in is crawling with police... I have been caught drink-driving for a third time, signalling another ban and jail time.
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Dream fragments
Walking down the Balls Pond Lane at night with Ian Saunders, looking for nightclubs. I know only the whereabouts of the many places to hear good traditional music, but Saunders wants something more 'banging' and to take me with him. At the same time, I am lamenting the gentrification of the neighbourhood: the exodus of the small and secretive 'sex and crime' parlours I like to visit... It's late, and we've walked a long way.
Saunders finds his club eventually. It's crowded with young, mainly black and Asian customers; the vibe is aggressive, and in no way communitarian. (No sense of hippy 'togetherness'.) Muscling our way back out to the road, Saunders tells me he's bought fourteen pills for his last night out with his mates; evoking resentment on my part, being unable- through poverty- to participate in such adventures. (Even though the prospect does not really appeal.) Saunders is now transfigured into a cat, and makes a swift airborne exit through the urban foliage; leaving me at the mercy of two muggers, who demand twenty pounds. As I approach their hastily-erected tollgate, listening to their well-drilled calls and jabberings, two discrete thoughts float through my mind: Where are the police? And the ugliness, the tawdriness of crime. Both men are real bottomfeeders... And anyway, all I have is eight quid.
Saunders finds his club eventually. It's crowded with young, mainly black and Asian customers; the vibe is aggressive, and in no way communitarian. (No sense of hippy 'togetherness'.) Muscling our way back out to the road, Saunders tells me he's bought fourteen pills for his last night out with his mates; evoking resentment on my part, being unable- through poverty- to participate in such adventures. (Even though the prospect does not really appeal.) Saunders is now transfigured into a cat, and makes a swift airborne exit through the urban foliage; leaving me at the mercy of two muggers, who demand twenty pounds. As I approach their hastily-erected tollgate, listening to their well-drilled calls and jabberings, two discrete thoughts float through my mind: Where are the police? And the ugliness, the tawdriness of crime. Both men are real bottomfeeders... And anyway, all I have is eight quid.
*
Marc Bolan has opened a synagogue in the upper room of an archaelogical site. He applies to the Jewish authorities for the right to preserve and develop it... little knowing that, on the same spot, or beneath it, years later some children will see an apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The site becomes a pilgrimage centre, a religious tourist attraction; but the upper room carries on undisturbed. Uncertain how best to defend it from commercialisation, Bolan takes to living in the room full-time (in the nude), and requests that any visitors first contact him before arriving, thus preserving (and absorbing) the energies of this special spiritual site.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Obama Dream #2
I am waiting at West Dulwich station in a suit, near- but not affiliated with- a group of other similarly-dressed men. As I buy my ticket then spiral down the staircase to the platform I think to myself how nice it would be to be a part of such an 'incestuous' company: they seem self-important, excited and charged up. Every step of the way I am being shadowed by Loren Coleman, one of whose essays (on lycanthropy) I have in my pocket.
The train pulls in; it's crowded but I find a seat towards the rear. Not long afterwards I reach my destination: a large lecture theatre, for a presentation given by President Barack Obama. I am very near the front; not only does Obama look directly at me on several occasions (he is as good looking in the flesh as he appears on television), he seems almost to be using me to guage 'official opinion' in the hall. I do my best to look alert and fully on-side. Sat next to me is Todd Campbell, and in the far corner, Loren Coleman.
At one point Obama makes a casual reference to the music of Tchaikovsky, a historal analogy. He isn't certain exactly when the piece of music in question was written (he is ad-libbing at this point), but we all have a rough idea: his point is made. A few seconds later his mobile rings; it's Coleman. From my position near the front I watch as Coleman, always the pedant, informs Obama exactly which year in the nineteenth century the piece in question was composed. Obama handles the interruption with typical aplomb; but when he resumes speaking, Coleman starts streaming the music on his laptop. Obama shoots me a quick glance (as if to say WTF?), then looks irritatedly at Coleman.
Obama surprises us by reciting lines from Coleman's essay (on werewolves and other mythical beasts) during his address. 'He's gonna talk about vampires and then move straight on to the CIA,' I whisper to Campbell, about which we share a discreet laugh. Obama then unveils plans for a huge new headquarters for the CIA at Langley, and major expansion of the Agency's powers. Didn't mention that during the campaign, I think to myself.
The President is then replaced by a bluff military general whose speech is littered with references to Jews as 'gooks'- making me and a few others laugh out loud. I reassure the young Jewish man sat on my right that I'm not usually in the habit of referring to Jews in this fashion, 'especially not when I'm in Israel.' He smiles politely and says: 'You wouldn't last long if you were,' and we both laugh.
Note: This was one of my 'Block A' specials- straight out of deep, REM sleep. As soon as I woke up I reached for my pen and notebook and transcribed it straight away; something I haven't felt like doing in quite a long time. Now I feel excited about exploring my dreams again... However depressing the message contained in them seems (often) to be, there is great value there as well; and a strange, slightly skewed humour. I remember telling you about the IMAX spectacular I had a while back... I think I misplaced the transcript unfortunately, but if I find it again I will make an effort to type it up.
The train pulls in; it's crowded but I find a seat towards the rear. Not long afterwards I reach my destination: a large lecture theatre, for a presentation given by President Barack Obama. I am very near the front; not only does Obama look directly at me on several occasions (he is as good looking in the flesh as he appears on television), he seems almost to be using me to guage 'official opinion' in the hall. I do my best to look alert and fully on-side. Sat next to me is Todd Campbell, and in the far corner, Loren Coleman.
At one point Obama makes a casual reference to the music of Tchaikovsky, a historal analogy. He isn't certain exactly when the piece of music in question was written (he is ad-libbing at this point), but we all have a rough idea: his point is made. A few seconds later his mobile rings; it's Coleman. From my position near the front I watch as Coleman, always the pedant, informs Obama exactly which year in the nineteenth century the piece in question was composed. Obama handles the interruption with typical aplomb; but when he resumes speaking, Coleman starts streaming the music on his laptop. Obama shoots me a quick glance (as if to say WTF?), then looks irritatedly at Coleman.
Obama surprises us by reciting lines from Coleman's essay (on werewolves and other mythical beasts) during his address. 'He's gonna talk about vampires and then move straight on to the CIA,' I whisper to Campbell, about which we share a discreet laugh. Obama then unveils plans for a huge new headquarters for the CIA at Langley, and major expansion of the Agency's powers. Didn't mention that during the campaign, I think to myself.
The President is then replaced by a bluff military general whose speech is littered with references to Jews as 'gooks'- making me and a few others laugh out loud. I reassure the young Jewish man sat on my right that I'm not usually in the habit of referring to Jews in this fashion, 'especially not when I'm in Israel.' He smiles politely and says: 'You wouldn't last long if you were,' and we both laugh.
Note: This was one of my 'Block A' specials- straight out of deep, REM sleep. As soon as I woke up I reached for my pen and notebook and transcribed it straight away; something I haven't felt like doing in quite a long time. Now I feel excited about exploring my dreams again... However depressing the message contained in them seems (often) to be, there is great value there as well; and a strange, slightly skewed humour. I remember telling you about the IMAX spectacular I had a while back... I think I misplaced the transcript unfortunately, but if I find it again I will make an effort to type it up.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Cambridge dreams, and more homoeroticism...
My dreams are so complex, often, that I frequently lose any inclination to record them simply because it would take too long. An epic from the holiday period ran to three pages of A4; I haven't transcribed it here yet, but I will soon. (It's practically a movie.) This morning's dream was one of the better of recent weeks, but again I didn't write down all of the details for the reasons just outlined. The salient parts, however, I remember well; and I'm going to give you a potted version now.
So, I'm back again in Pembroke College, Cambridge. I'm so sad... because I realise, upon my return, a decade after graduating, that there had been all the time I was there a campus nightclub (The Union) that I had somewhere managed to miss. I'm filled with all the regret for the lost nights of fun I could have had down there; especially when I realise that it has two stages- one for theatre, the other for music- and that the quality of tonight's musical entertainment is risibly poor. Who are they? My old friends from Beckenham: The Shots- a real-life band- and a couple of rear-gunners in support. Pat, the ginger-headed lead guitarist and singer; Pablo, the rhythm guitarist; also, to my surprise, an old friend of many years passing, Shaun Harrigan on bass; and another blast from the distant past, Matthew Browne, on classical guitar. (Filling in with all these flamenco-inspired licks.) Unfortunately, however, the music is turgid; and the vocals thoroughly uninspired. It pisses me off because I keep thinking to myself how much better I could have done, had I only known that this underground facility (!) existed.
A couple of former University friends file past me. Dan Angadi, a man I hadn't thought about in my waking life for years, is one of them; he seems pleased enough to see me but quickly vanishes elsewhere. The Shots are pleased to see me; four complimentary pints of lager get served to me by a black College Porter who seems amused by the fact that his job seems to be as my personal butler. But I'm dismayed to find The Union is a non-drinking bar; I'll need to take those beers outside if I want to enjoy them.
As I'm pondering this, a friend I have thought about- quite often- appears on the dream scene: Faisal Rahman, dressed on this occasion, in spectacularly camp, Brazilian carnival-type clobber. He's showing a lot of tall, tanned, toned brown flesh; and is keeping company with at least two other highly glamourous gay men, all dressed similarly. He's pleased to see me but disappointed by my staid attire. His friend, on the other hand, glares at me with undisguised contempt. 'Why didn't you come dressed to party?' asks Faisal, before moving off, almost apologetically.
Homo-erotic dream material yet again!
So, I'm back again in Pembroke College, Cambridge. I'm so sad... because I realise, upon my return, a decade after graduating, that there had been all the time I was there a campus nightclub (The Union) that I had somewhere managed to miss. I'm filled with all the regret for the lost nights of fun I could have had down there; especially when I realise that it has two stages- one for theatre, the other for music- and that the quality of tonight's musical entertainment is risibly poor. Who are they? My old friends from Beckenham: The Shots- a real-life band- and a couple of rear-gunners in support. Pat, the ginger-headed lead guitarist and singer; Pablo, the rhythm guitarist; also, to my surprise, an old friend of many years passing, Shaun Harrigan on bass; and another blast from the distant past, Matthew Browne, on classical guitar. (Filling in with all these flamenco-inspired licks.) Unfortunately, however, the music is turgid; and the vocals thoroughly uninspired. It pisses me off because I keep thinking to myself how much better I could have done, had I only known that this underground facility (!) existed.
A couple of former University friends file past me. Dan Angadi, a man I hadn't thought about in my waking life for years, is one of them; he seems pleased enough to see me but quickly vanishes elsewhere. The Shots are pleased to see me; four complimentary pints of lager get served to me by a black College Porter who seems amused by the fact that his job seems to be as my personal butler. But I'm dismayed to find The Union is a non-drinking bar; I'll need to take those beers outside if I want to enjoy them.
As I'm pondering this, a friend I have thought about- quite often- appears on the dream scene: Faisal Rahman, dressed on this occasion, in spectacularly camp, Brazilian carnival-type clobber. He's showing a lot of tall, tanned, toned brown flesh; and is keeping company with at least two other highly glamourous gay men, all dressed similarly. He's pleased to see me but disappointed by my staid attire. His friend, on the other hand, glares at me with undisguised contempt. 'Why didn't you come dressed to party?' asks Faisal, before moving off, almost apologetically.
Homo-erotic dream material yet again!
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