Note: The following were both 'Block A' dreams: drawn straight from the depths of REM sleep. I retired at around 0400, and awoke at 0630, transcribing both dreams (or the two parts of the one dream) immediately afterwards. Once again, there may well have been a whole preceding 'unit' which I have been unable to recall... The very deepest dreams, I find, are almost impossible to remember, and operate at (and on) the unconscious. Of very great interest is the fact that the 'cricket club', just like the night club or late-night bar I described a couple of days ago, is another recurring dream image: part of the coherent, internal geography of my personal dreamscape.
I find myself in a store- a store which sells security items, I dimly recall, but which later turns out to be a synagogue. I am with a woman, a slightly mad woman, who used to date the manager. As she bitches about him, his image on the CCTV monitor pixellates, as if protecting his identity. Another woman, possibly black, is also with us; I have been pestering her for days to read The Stand. I share with my theory on why the book is so easy to visualise, a theory I had not consciously formulated in my waking life. It's all down, I tell her, to the countless millions who have imagined the characters and incidents that Stephen King writes about: the collective force of all those readers' imaginations has somehow built a mini-reality for the novel to inhabit; it's so much easier for the reader to 'slide into' the story, because the inner plane that the story exists upon has already been constructed. The reader is not obliged to construct that edifice himself.
This theory- I realise- applies to all great and time-honoured stories, and explains why classics such as Alice in Wonderland (and the Bible!) have such hypnotic force.
The black woman agrees to read it, and I promise to buy her a copy for Christmas.
Then Joanna Masters- a girl I knew from church about fifteen years ago- enters the store, dressed 'pneumatically' in a black leather dress which displays to great effect her artficially inflated bust. Her mother, who is with her, seems pleased that I notice... and makes sure that Joanna notices me noticing.
'Have you had them done?' I ask. Apparently she's now back to her natural size (or slightly bigger) following a regrettable breast reduction a few years ago.
The owner of the store, or synagogue, finally gets tired of us and politely asks us to leave. I reassure him his former partner has not divulged his identity.
*
I then find myself watching cricket in my back garden. England are playing Sri Lanka, and England are taking a bit of a pasting. I seem to be both spectator and a part of the action, though not an integral one. It starts raining but play continues.
At the end of the session, with Sri Lanka well in control, I shelter from the rain underneath a tree at the far end of the garden. Its pouring hard, the outfield is soaked, and several fielders- myself included- are covered in grass stains and mud.
As I finally make my way back into the pavilion (my parents' house), I notice that the rain has brought a large and growing number of slugs to the surface- fat slugs of various sizes and hues- one of my worst childhood fears. I want to get off the field but the rain keeps pouring down, the slugs keep multiplying in number, and now the water level is getting so high that I won't be able to reach the house without sloshing ankle-deep through a puddle of rain and slugs.
The thought evokes a gale of nauseated hilarity and terror... and I wake up.
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
Monday, 22 December 2008
Strange Carroll-esque dreams...
Note: There was a whole dream story preceding this first 'Block A' dream, the details of which evaporated very quickly after waking at around 0400. The second dream is from 'Block B.' ('Block C' dreams, due to their trivial content, I rarely bother recording.)
I find myself in a car park at twilight, with the semi-deserted feeling of a suburban magical grove. I am transcribing into my files a story about a journalist who vigorously rejects the Big Brother society and gets implanted by the Illuminati by means of punishment. Why I am up so late- as night turns slowly to morning- I have no idea. At the end of a narrow path through a crisscross wire fence, the pub is still open. A small crowd of young people, all dressed up, wander in and out; some of them passing through the gate to the garden-cum-parking area where I am. Inside the pub an exercise class seems to be finishing up, or perhaps it's a televised recording of the same- it's hard to tell for certain. The few women scattered around the pub terrace are alluringly dressed; but so few in number that I decide not to join the party. (Interestingly, however, I feel I have been inside this pub or late-night club in many other dreams...)
As I walk back to my vehicle, I encounter a group of girls from the office where I used to work: Lauren Melly, Lauren Armstrong, Marianne, etc. I pretend to be stoned and drunk, a slightly masochistic act because I am fully aware that such behaviour will make me the butt of work gossip for weeks to come. My act, culminating in a long drawn out, rather creepy stoned giggle- is so convincing I can feel the fear building in my audience. I break character to reassure the girls I was kidding around.
'I'm a bit pissed and stoned,' I say, 'but nothing as bad as that!' They go into hysterics; and whilst laughing another girl- a prettier version of another one of my former colleagues- returns to the group, leans forward, and rests her arm on my knee. It's a nice feeling, and at that point I awaken.
*
I am back at Ellis Taylor's house, and he's showing me photographs and songs taken (and composed) over the course of his various imaginary careers. Shots from a space shuttle flight I later discover he's never been on. A photograph of himself as a young boy and a friend... The friend is wearing a long, almost gondola-shaped 'thing' on his head. ET attempts to pluck at my heartstrings claiming that some hospital or other has launched an appeal to locate the boy in the hat; or perhaps- the details are hazy- that it has the gondola-shaped thing in its possession and is holding it until evidence emerges as to the identity of its true owner. This strikes me as unseasonably sad and I want to help out. Later, his story changes: apparently it was never that gondola exactly... and I never said it was, he implies... I am enraged by Ellis's palpable untrustworthiness, and his pathological need to engage people in his fantasies.
Back in my parents' house, I'm listening (appropriately) to Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles, on a tape I think ET may well have left with me. A very strange experience: the middle of the night, rain is pouring outside... and there are all these new, never-before-heard harmonies and voices emerging from the speakers. Outside a procession of cars- one every few minutes- turns in our driveway, sometimes missing the walls by very narrow margins. Thoroughly spooked, I switch ET's tape off and listen instead to a phone-in on BBC Radio Five. The caller is drunk. The host plays along, laughing; and later edits together some of his more insane drunken moments into a kind of radio montage that he uses to spice up the instrumental introductions to various popular songs.
I go outside and to my surprise several large pot plants adorn the outside of the property, growing rapidly in the rainy conditions. I look down and there, at my feet, a whole tray full of tiny pot plants has swerved up the drive and is attempting to execute a labourious three-point turn.
'Are you alright?' I ask, solicitiously, but the foliage does not seem grateful for my intervention.
Later, a man in a large SUV-type vehicle pulls up... and begins drawing petrol from a pump that has sprung up in the driveway. He observes the now-yellowing pot plants growing from the windows and urges me to take them indoors before the rain spoils them. As I make to do so, one hand fumbles on something sharp on the inner rim of one of the posts... which falls to the ground, but does not smash. I look down.
There, to my disgust, is a large praying mantis.
'What would have happened if that thing had bitten me?' I ask the well-dressed man, who I now recognise to be Simon Cowell.
'You'd have been paying for a taxi to the hospital,' he says.
'You mean with all your money you wouldn't have put your hand in your pocket on my behalf then?' I ask... but Cowell just laughs, amusedly.
I find myself in a car park at twilight, with the semi-deserted feeling of a suburban magical grove. I am transcribing into my files a story about a journalist who vigorously rejects the Big Brother society and gets implanted by the Illuminati by means of punishment. Why I am up so late- as night turns slowly to morning- I have no idea. At the end of a narrow path through a crisscross wire fence, the pub is still open. A small crowd of young people, all dressed up, wander in and out; some of them passing through the gate to the garden-cum-parking area where I am. Inside the pub an exercise class seems to be finishing up, or perhaps it's a televised recording of the same- it's hard to tell for certain. The few women scattered around the pub terrace are alluringly dressed; but so few in number that I decide not to join the party. (Interestingly, however, I feel I have been inside this pub or late-night club in many other dreams...)
As I walk back to my vehicle, I encounter a group of girls from the office where I used to work: Lauren Melly, Lauren Armstrong, Marianne, etc. I pretend to be stoned and drunk, a slightly masochistic act because I am fully aware that such behaviour will make me the butt of work gossip for weeks to come. My act, culminating in a long drawn out, rather creepy stoned giggle- is so convincing I can feel the fear building in my audience. I break character to reassure the girls I was kidding around.
'I'm a bit pissed and stoned,' I say, 'but nothing as bad as that!' They go into hysterics; and whilst laughing another girl- a prettier version of another one of my former colleagues- returns to the group, leans forward, and rests her arm on my knee. It's a nice feeling, and at that point I awaken.
*
I am back at Ellis Taylor's house, and he's showing me photographs and songs taken (and composed) over the course of his various imaginary careers. Shots from a space shuttle flight I later discover he's never been on. A photograph of himself as a young boy and a friend... The friend is wearing a long, almost gondola-shaped 'thing' on his head. ET attempts to pluck at my heartstrings claiming that some hospital or other has launched an appeal to locate the boy in the hat; or perhaps- the details are hazy- that it has the gondola-shaped thing in its possession and is holding it until evidence emerges as to the identity of its true owner. This strikes me as unseasonably sad and I want to help out. Later, his story changes: apparently it was never that gondola exactly... and I never said it was, he implies... I am enraged by Ellis's palpable untrustworthiness, and his pathological need to engage people in his fantasies.
Back in my parents' house, I'm listening (appropriately) to Lyin' Eyes by the Eagles, on a tape I think ET may well have left with me. A very strange experience: the middle of the night, rain is pouring outside... and there are all these new, never-before-heard harmonies and voices emerging from the speakers. Outside a procession of cars- one every few minutes- turns in our driveway, sometimes missing the walls by very narrow margins. Thoroughly spooked, I switch ET's tape off and listen instead to a phone-in on BBC Radio Five. The caller is drunk. The host plays along, laughing; and later edits together some of his more insane drunken moments into a kind of radio montage that he uses to spice up the instrumental introductions to various popular songs.
I go outside and to my surprise several large pot plants adorn the outside of the property, growing rapidly in the rainy conditions. I look down and there, at my feet, a whole tray full of tiny pot plants has swerved up the drive and is attempting to execute a labourious three-point turn.
'Are you alright?' I ask, solicitiously, but the foliage does not seem grateful for my intervention.
Later, a man in a large SUV-type vehicle pulls up... and begins drawing petrol from a pump that has sprung up in the driveway. He observes the now-yellowing pot plants growing from the windows and urges me to take them indoors before the rain spoils them. As I make to do so, one hand fumbles on something sharp on the inner rim of one of the posts... which falls to the ground, but does not smash. I look down.
There, to my disgust, is a large praying mantis.
'What would have happened if that thing had bitten me?' I ask the well-dressed man, who I now recognise to be Simon Cowell.
'You'd have been paying for a taxi to the hospital,' he says.
'You mean with all your money you wouldn't have put your hand in your pocket on my behalf then?' I ask... but Cowell just laughs, amusedly.
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Dreams of Warne...
I'm at a children's party at a farm somewhere. My mother has bought me a new suit for the occasion: a 'gentleman farmer's' outfit, rather smart: a very traditional brown plaid jacket with bow tie. My Auntie Tricia is there; I'm discussing Fatima-type apparitions with a sweet little boy who is also present. There's a 'lady ghost' who haunts the barn- she's very beautiful, he says- who the little boy has seen on several occasions. 'She's not frightening,' he tells me, 'she's beautiful.' He shows me how tall he thinks she is, and my heart sinks a little because she's much taller (in his imagination) than I had been led to believe a 'real' apparition would be. Jack, my brother, is also at the party, and I shoot him a slightly knowing look, as if to say, 'Yeah, the kid's making it up, but he's a sweet kid, so let's not worry.'
At some later point, the group forms a circle, holding hands and begins moving round the room in a clockwise direction. My childhood friend Lewis is present, looking every inch the 'gentleman farmer', with a dickie tie even bigger than my own. He's clearly here in the hope of finding an eligible partner, despite being a young boy of about nine; I find myself admiring his front and confidence. Auntie Tricia lets go off my hand as the group spins, and part of the circle collapses, but I'm left standing.
Soon afterwards (the legendary Australian cricketer) Shane Warne makes an appearance, see here. We know each other... We're very pleased to see one another again. He has beautiful, deep blue eyes, hair the colour of straw, and a healthy, sun-kissed complexion. I am about to tell him (the real-life) story of a porn star I met once at a swingers' party, who had claimed she slept with Warne in exchange for money; but before I can do that, I wake up.
At some later point, the group forms a circle, holding hands and begins moving round the room in a clockwise direction. My childhood friend Lewis is present, looking every inch the 'gentleman farmer', with a dickie tie even bigger than my own. He's clearly here in the hope of finding an eligible partner, despite being a young boy of about nine; I find myself admiring his front and confidence. Auntie Tricia lets go off my hand as the group spins, and part of the circle collapses, but I'm left standing.
Soon afterwards (the legendary Australian cricketer) Shane Warne makes an appearance, see here. We know each other... We're very pleased to see one another again. He has beautiful, deep blue eyes, hair the colour of straw, and a healthy, sun-kissed complexion. I am about to tell him (the real-life) story of a porn star I met once at a swingers' party, who had claimed she slept with Warne in exchange for money; but before I can do that, I wake up.
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
He's BAAAACK!
I am at a rock concert with my father. On-stage, a bland-looking man performs 'Kids in America' at extreme volume. I'm standing to his left, gazing out as though from the wings. There are other people behind me, including (I realise, as he breaks into a new song) my old University friend, Danny Jones. The song is slow and mournful, and after a few bars I realise what it is. Now My Heart Is Full by Morrissey. Danny and I sing along.
Now finding myself out front with the rest of the crowd, shortly afterwards Morrissey himself takes the stage. He seems shorter than usual, is dressed rather badly, and has a beer-gut; but it's still him, and after a couple of songs a cordon breaks and a large section of the audience surge forward. I hold back, disappointedly reflecting that had I only stayed where I was I would be perfectly placed to receive a handshake, or more, from the man himself. But in the next breath I find myself sat on stage with him, in the company of a small group of fellow superfans, closer than I have ever been before. Unusually, Moz is accompanying himself on the guitar as well as singing.
Amongst the superfans are a couple of girls I have my eye on. One of them reads my website and, as Morrissey sings, we talk a little about that. Some pretty poorly-constructed joints are passed around; a guy sat directly in front of Moz takes a hit, then exhales the smoke in the singer's face. Morrissey grimaces. 'Are you alright, Moz?' I ask, to little response. At the end of the song Morrissey launches into a speech which deterioates into a stoned ramble. I lean over to a girl on my right and say, 'I'm a little bit worried about Moz at the moment.' 'You should be,' she replies, laughing.
Finishing up the set, Morrissey comes over to me and begins razzing me about the girls I've been intending to seduce. 'He's always doing that, aren't you son?' he says, humourously (but rather maliciously) exposing me in front of the others. 'Yes dad,' I reply, smiling, playing along with the joke but duly chastened. The girls drift off; I didn't score.
On the way to the next act, descending a set of stairs to another auditorium, I hear some people behind me sarcastically proclaiming: 'Erris Taylor! Erris Taylor!', in a put-on oriental voice.
There's gonna be some trouble...
Now finding myself out front with the rest of the crowd, shortly afterwards Morrissey himself takes the stage. He seems shorter than usual, is dressed rather badly, and has a beer-gut; but it's still him, and after a couple of songs a cordon breaks and a large section of the audience surge forward. I hold back, disappointedly reflecting that had I only stayed where I was I would be perfectly placed to receive a handshake, or more, from the man himself. But in the next breath I find myself sat on stage with him, in the company of a small group of fellow superfans, closer than I have ever been before. Unusually, Moz is accompanying himself on the guitar as well as singing.
Amongst the superfans are a couple of girls I have my eye on. One of them reads my website and, as Morrissey sings, we talk a little about that. Some pretty poorly-constructed joints are passed around; a guy sat directly in front of Moz takes a hit, then exhales the smoke in the singer's face. Morrissey grimaces. 'Are you alright, Moz?' I ask, to little response. At the end of the song Morrissey launches into a speech which deterioates into a stoned ramble. I lean over to a girl on my right and say, 'I'm a little bit worried about Moz at the moment.' 'You should be,' she replies, laughing.
Finishing up the set, Morrissey comes over to me and begins razzing me about the girls I've been intending to seduce. 'He's always doing that, aren't you son?' he says, humourously (but rather maliciously) exposing me in front of the others. 'Yes dad,' I reply, smiling, playing along with the joke but duly chastened. The girls drift off; I didn't score.
On the way to the next act, descending a set of stairs to another auditorium, I hear some people behind me sarcastically proclaiming: 'Erris Taylor! Erris Taylor!', in a put-on oriental voice.
There's gonna be some trouble...
Monday, 1 December 2008
Dreams of Zion
I am in Israel, studying sociology under a highly charismatic Jewish teacher. We are both in some public place, either a shopping centre or a train, dressed in ceremonial robes (his white, mine black.) Above our heads, a bank of monitors relays our conversation to other shoppers, and vice versa. A loud American woman, mistaking me for an Arab, opines that it would be best for non-religious Israelis if the two tribes (Jew and Muslim) simply destroyed each other; my teacher interjects, cutting her argument down with calm incision that fills me with something like awe.
I had failed to understand the content of my first lecture on Israeli soil and I am beginning to feel completely out of my depth. Until, that is, a video-simulation is shown to me, which illustrates the lecturer's point brilliantly. Watching it, I am filled with a rising sense of destiny; suddenly I know why I am here.
On the screen, water laps against a shore line, depicted as a pulsing red line. A short distance away from it, following the same contours, there flows a second line... After a while I realise that these are the historical and present borders of the land of Israel, and I am watching the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, sweeping in and out. The realisation that the borders of the present align so closely with those of the Bible is extremely moving. The throbbing line of the land, filled with its blood-like cargo, seems heavy with symbolic resonance.
My teacher and I then head to a synagogue. Immediately upon entering, my teacher, a priest, anoints his hands with blood; I am expected to wash mine also. I ask him whether I too should use the blood, and he looks at me very strangely. The blood is the sole preserve of the priest; I must use oil. He shows me how.
To reach my next destination I have to use an underground train. Being in Israel, and using the (imaginary) Metro is very frightening to me. There is another platform directly in front of the one I am standing at; I can already see, as the car rushes in, perilously close to my feet that the train I need to catch is already standing there and I am going to miss my connection. Avoiding the onrushing train, I sprint to the opposite side... Where, miraculously, somebody has pressed a stop button, giving me just enough time to enter the carriage before it departs.
The interior is cavernous... I find myself in a hangar-like space, more like an airport than a Metro train. Cockney voices ring out; a young, slightly retarded man wearing a McDonald's uniform introduces himself to me. A little overfriendly, I move on quickly; I have to find my colleagues before the train pulls in or I will lose them forever. A few carriages down and I reach a large empty hall. There is a bar and a stage, and a small flight of stairs leading down to a cellar. Descending, I am elated to find my friends, including the charismatic teacher who greets me with no sense of surprise. Beautiful, hypnotic music plays in the background; we talk about modern classical music, and I realise that I would gladly live (and die) for Israel...
I had failed to understand the content of my first lecture on Israeli soil and I am beginning to feel completely out of my depth. Until, that is, a video-simulation is shown to me, which illustrates the lecturer's point brilliantly. Watching it, I am filled with a rising sense of destiny; suddenly I know why I am here.
On the screen, water laps against a shore line, depicted as a pulsing red line. A short distance away from it, following the same contours, there flows a second line... After a while I realise that these are the historical and present borders of the land of Israel, and I am watching the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, sweeping in and out. The realisation that the borders of the present align so closely with those of the Bible is extremely moving. The throbbing line of the land, filled with its blood-like cargo, seems heavy with symbolic resonance.
My teacher and I then head to a synagogue. Immediately upon entering, my teacher, a priest, anoints his hands with blood; I am expected to wash mine also. I ask him whether I too should use the blood, and he looks at me very strangely. The blood is the sole preserve of the priest; I must use oil. He shows me how.
To reach my next destination I have to use an underground train. Being in Israel, and using the (imaginary) Metro is very frightening to me. There is another platform directly in front of the one I am standing at; I can already see, as the car rushes in, perilously close to my feet that the train I need to catch is already standing there and I am going to miss my connection. Avoiding the onrushing train, I sprint to the opposite side... Where, miraculously, somebody has pressed a stop button, giving me just enough time to enter the carriage before it departs.
The interior is cavernous... I find myself in a hangar-like space, more like an airport than a Metro train. Cockney voices ring out; a young, slightly retarded man wearing a McDonald's uniform introduces himself to me. A little overfriendly, I move on quickly; I have to find my colleagues before the train pulls in or I will lose them forever. A few carriages down and I reach a large empty hall. There is a bar and a stage, and a small flight of stairs leading down to a cellar. Descending, I am elated to find my friends, including the charismatic teacher who greets me with no sense of surprise. Beautiful, hypnotic music plays in the background; we talk about modern classical music, and I realise that I would gladly live (and die) for Israel...
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