Dream Diary
1998
Fri Nov 6 04:39:00 BST 1998
I am in my father's house, and there is a party going on. It's very cold outside, being Christmas Day. Some things seem to remind me of the previous year. There are some weird uninvited guests in the kitchen, and they have got all my old drawings and computer game boxes and put them in the kitchen cupboards. There is one guy who is obsessed with Lara Croft, and keeps making plaster-cast models of her and then blowing through a hole in the end so that the figure collapses into a plaster mound, before throwing it across the room.
My father realises that there is something wrong at the party, and decides that he has to do something about it. He takes me down to the cellar, and we leap into a flowing stream, which takes us into a steamy sub-tropical jungle. There are natives there who have been set up to defend their territory against us, and they have many weapons at their disposal. They leap between the banks of the stream, twirling spears over their heads before thrashing into the water, and then attacking with a barrage of ornately carved coral throwing stars. They are dressed as tribal primitives, with head-dresses and body paint.
By staying under the surface of the freezing water, we are able to avoid their attacks, although one of the throwing stars which is spinning very fast grazes a scar along my stomach, in the place where I expect my appendix scar to be. We are able to find a clearing where we can get out of the water, and it seems that they don't recognise us here. I know however that we have been poisoned, and luckily I prepared earlier by studying the antidote for the poison. I find a number of wild jungle plants and climb into the treehouse owned by a couple of the neutral natives, and have to eat a number of berries and cones. Finally, there is a green root similar in shape to ginger, and by blowing at one end the centre is hollowed out and a clear liquid is released, which I must drink in order to live.
In the meantime, one of the hostile natives has noticed our presence in the village, and is standing at the foot of the tree-house waiting for us. The shaman is there also, who had previously been at the party in the house. He is in charge of the natives, and was the ringleader of the gatecrashers to the party. However, we seem to be in a different time period than the party, the climate and environment are so different. My father grabs me and we leap down from the treehouse, and we choose to make a run for it. We run through some trees into a clearing, where there is a small building reminiscent of an Aztec temple.
We go inside, and it seems to be the basement of the house next door to ours. We have managed to lose the natives that were chasing us, and once inside it now seems to be cold again. However, my father knows that we are now one day in the past relative to the party, and so we must go to their basement kitchen, where he turns on the oven, possibly to warm it up in preparation for the Christmas meal. Then he sends me back to the other house, and opens a door for me to enter. It taked me into a well lit set of catacombs, constructed by hand from solid earth hewn into very precise rectilinear corridoors.
There is a mechasism set into one of the walls. There are a number of narrow chains, similar to the chains on a grandfather clock pendulum, and attached to each of the chains is a Star Wars plastic toy figurine. The chains move on some unseen pully system, and individual characters are moved down into a dark hole beneath the contraption at great speed. A mechanical voice explains that the bodies must attain an acceleration four times that of the earth's, and I realise that this is the way that I will have to get back to tomorrow.
I discover a larger room with a set of large chains, and strap myself into the mechanism. I can hear that the natives are discussing my whereabouts, and have almost tracked me down, so I realise that there is no time to lose. I am transported back to the hallway of my own house, and the party is still going, so I must be back to Christmas day again. I am lead by somebody up to my father's bedroom. It turns out that he is a great magician, wearing blue and silver robes and a ritual pendant. His room is constructed as one large bronze sculpture, clearly designed to allow him to focus his magical powers, although it is not clear to me how much his powers are symbolic, and how much influence he has over reality.
He sends me down to the kitchen, and tells me that together we managed to overcome the enemy. The party is still going, but there never were any gatecrashers. All the snow on the lawn outside the kitchen window is starting to melt. I mention to my friend that it's funny how last year the neighbours made a clock out of snow in the back yard, and they have done the same thing this year. Then I realise that the reason things are melting is that yesterday, my father turned on the cooker in the neighbour's basement kitchen, and so since then it has been defrosting the rooms and garden above, so the snow clock is melting also.
I realise that my father had been planning this all along, that he knew that we needed to go into the past to turn on the oven, so that the enemy could be overcome. Perhaps his magic affords him some ability to escry the events around him, and enables him to alter to nature of reality in order to set things straight.
Sun Sep 6 05:00:00 BST 1998
I am sitting on my bed, which is in the corner of my bedroom. I have lots of postcards on the walls, some of which are mine, and some of which are my girlfriend's. The pictures are the only real decoration in the room, they provide both cultural context and visual stimulation, although I have a tendency to become acclimatised to images on the walls, and tend not to notice them after they have been put up.
However, some hours ago, I must have taken a dose of acid, because I am beginning to notice a change in my general perceptions. I am noticing sounds in the room which were previously background noise, although I am doubtful that my perception of the noises is accurate. I can feel various kinds of tingling in my body, as if my central nervous system is running away with itself. But more significantly, there is a growing feeling of uncertainty and trepidation in the room, as if there is something outside which is about to become a threat.
Not wanting to have to face up to the thought of something invading my space and security, I draw into myself, and huddle up underneath the bedclothes. The sheets feel soft and sweaty to the touch, although they are not wet, and I can feel every protruding twist of fibre as they brush against the hairs on my arm. I look to the wall which is covered in postcards, but I know that the images on my postcards are generally negative and frightening, pictures of aliens and monsters which I fear would permeate my consciousness and send me into a terrifying bad trip.
Luckily, I know that the postcards put up by my girlfriend are of an altogether more positive nature, bright colourful paintings by Howard Hodgkin, and photographs of my parents house in the summer. I realise that if I concentrate on those pictures, chosen by her to fill her world with images of light, they will help me to escape from my own self-reflecting pictures of ugliness and despair.
I look at one particular picture of the garden in which I used to play as a child. It is an old photo, taken before I was born, the plants are very young and some of garden is not yet seeded. If I look at the image intently, I can start to feel that it is taking shape in reality, and that my reality is being replaced with the reality in the picture.
It is like a special effect in a film, where a character looks into a magical looking glass and is transported though a rippling portal to a land of adventure. I have complete control over the form and structure of the world, and it exists only though my volition. However, I am aware that the aliens from the other pictures are trying to break into my hallucinatory reality, and I must concentrate on the details of the world to make it coherent, and only then can I stop the anachronistic appearance of the evil thoughts.
Mon Jul 27 04:00:00 BST 1998
I'm standing at window of industrial building. I've got a rifle, with a sight, and those evil bastards are going to pay for what they've done. I can hear the squad car sirens flitting around town, and from the sound of the sirens I can determine where the crimes have occurred, and from the geography of the town I know so well, I can also determine the nature of the crimes.
The building overlooks the police station. A squad car pulls up, and two cops leap out, escorting a perp towards the main entrance. I know that he is guilty, the pattern of the crimes is clear to me now. I switch to the other window, and looking through the sight of the rifle I know that there is little remaining time. I try to aim the crosshairs onto the head of the evil one, but when I squeeze the trigger, even though I secretly know that my judgement might be faulty, I decide that this may be the last chance, and that if I miss, he may live to create more misery in the world.
As I finaly pull down on the trigger, the gun kicks around, and I keep on plugging automatic shots into their bodies, the cops get in the way, and I probably kill all three of them. I hear shouting, other cops are there and have seen the flashes from the gun. I leap out of the window onto the roof of a van, and start to run into the night to continue my vigilance.
Tue Jun 16 07:00:00 BST 1998
I am walking through a graveyard. The graves are arranged in rows, although the whole plot of land is on a slight incline. There are a number of women walking slowly through the light mist, as if sleepwalking, between the rows of graves. Their clothes suggest that they are nuns, as they are wearing black robes and cowls with white adornments, but they seem too elegant and radiant to be devoted to a life of chastity. They hold their hands dreamily in front of them, trying to part the mist as if it were curtains, but not understanding why they will not open. They walk at the same slow pace, but some are in front of others, as if they had started walking at staggered intervals.
The graveyard is part of the cathedral grounds, the cathedral being an integral part of the college. I decide to go to my room, which involves cutting across the rows of graves. I deliberately walk on the graves, as I feel that there is no inherent value in the earth which covers a decaying body, and that my action will be a statement against the primitive superstitions used by the church to maintain its position of authority.
I notice that upon each grave lies a picture of the girl that died, a sentimental sepia print to simulate an old photograph. They all seem to be the graves of young women. I stop at one of the pictures, and in a lucid moment realise that I can visualise the woman that died from the photograph, and that this will cause her to become corporeal. As I concentrate on one girl, I can picture her breasts in my mind. They are taut under a silk brassiere, in which she was lovingly dressed by the undertaker while her body still retained a trace of warmth. Her hair is a mousy blond, and is cropped to her shoulders, and her lips seem to be twisted in frustration at the realisation of her own impending death.
As I look at the ground near my feet, I see that my imagination has become flesh. Her body has appeared, fading into substance, gradually squashing the blades of grass underneath as it gained more mass. It is not clear whether the reincarnated body of the girl is dead or whether she is in the same trance as the nuns, because she seems so still and relaxed. Her skin is warm and moist to the touch, although this may simply be a projection of my anthropomorphisation of her life into the lifeless flesh. I look at her body as she lies on the grass, with her head resting on the cold stone at the foot of the tombstone. She is a symbol of pure creation, beauty recovered from the final stages of a body's natural decay.
The vapour in my breath writhes as it stretches within the folds of the mist, wrapping itself around our limbs as we are joined in an unholy matrimony. The dreaming virgins continue their solemn procession past us, as we consecrate the holy ground, revitalising the earth with our deathly passion. The ground receives us, as the disease begins to afflict my jaded flesh. We descend back into the tomb, where we can decay in each others embrace, cooled by the dampness of the soil, insulated forever from the dull echoes of the graveyard and the distant call of the cathedral bell.
Mon Apr 13 07:00:00 BST 1998
I'm standing outside the village hall in my parents country village. It's a small brick hall, with large windows. My parents are sitting inside, recovering from a large Easter meal. It's getting dark outside, and the sounds of the insects that live in the hedgerow are starting to permeate.
I'm carrying a shoulder mounted rocket launcher, and decide to fire it in through the window where my parents are sitting. I release the safety catch, and operate the trigger, and feel the weight on my shoulder as the rocket fuel starts to burn and it gradually gains velocity towards the window. I lower the weapon, as the rockets strikes the windows, which smash dramatically.
I suddenly realise that firing a rocket in there was perhaps not such a good idea after all, bearing in mind the stockpile of military munitions that are being kept there. The explosion of the rocket triggers a number of other devices, which variously explode or are launched through the window.
Then it dawns on me what is happening. A number of large, surface to air missiles have launched from the village hall, seeking their way through the broken window. Searching for an explanation to this, I realise that I've been hearing in the back of my mind the sound of a number of jet airline planes flying overhead. Therefore, the missiles must have attained a positive lock on the planes, and hence were able to navigate through the window towards them, while the rest of the triggered weapons simply struck nearby walls.
Crouching for cover from the debris of the exploding hall, I look up to see the missiles effortlessly sailing into their targets. The planes are struck at short intervals, and explosions on-board seem to knock them out of trajectory, towards the nearby fields.
I start to run, anticipating a big explosion. As the planes career down to the ground, large fragments of fuselage are jettisoned during various explosions, and some of these fragments start to fall towards me. They seem to have gained the appearance of small meteorites, or perhaps fireballs, and seem to almost know that I am running along the road. I try to run faster, but they keep following me.
Gradually, the fireballs lose their volume and impetus, and are merely flaming balls which bounce along the road behind me as I keep a safe distance in front of me. I have been running around the road which encircles the village, and start to approach one of the first houses on the other side of the village. The fireballs have now turned into a large number of small purple bubbles, still bouncing along behind me, still seeming to posess enough awareness to follow me.
Then I notice a small boy sitting at the front step of the house, and he has a small pot of bubble mixture, and is blowing a small number of bubbles into the air. I then realise that he must be behind it all, that he has somehow manipulated my actions and the events up to this point. He is a seer, and has foreshadowed the events of the present in his past intentions.