Skip to main content

Ten

A surprisingly recent entry is in order, and this came fresh from the cortex last night/this morning.

'In an old tall building on the outskirts of the City. Outside, numerous fires rage, rubble is strewn across collapsed streets. I am with a group of friends, and part of some kind of elite squad trying to hold the building from marauding hordes of unknown evil. With me are real life compadres, but also several people from stage and screen whom I should recognise but do not (waking based research indicates these people to be actors Peter Mullan and Michala Banas). I have a weapon, but am told not to use it under any circumstances. This seems strange considering our role as a military unit. We are told to a) contain the threat, voice comes via an unseen radio, and b) make our way to the base of the building and meet up with a security force, which seems to be led by my real life work mate Nick, who has one purple eye. Action shifts relentlessly, I am often confused as to where people are and what we should be doing. Corridors are dimly lit and filled with smoke and illusive morphing shapes. I hide alongside my girlfriend, who I take to be Zoe but could realistically be anyone as her face is not revealed, in an office with glass walls and doors. People move outside. She wants to know why they cannot see us. I explain that I have an extra eye that hovers in front of my face and controls my visibility. Eventually we pick up the courage to leave and I find the actor (Peter Mullan) cowering in the corridor, his hands covered in blood. Without hesitation, I pull him to his feet and put a gun in his mouth. He laughs. I pull the trigger. Now downstairs I am reprimanded by my senior officer (Nick). Other military units are arriving at the building, each one disgusted with me for killing the man. I feel ashamed and walk away from my group of friends and the military men. They call after me. I walk up a narrow crumbling stair case attached to the shell of a building, a former school. Refugees and war wounded pass me as I climb.'

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Sixty Eight

In some sort of wasteland, possibly Malton from urbandead but in reality. The buildings and general lay out of the space appears to be a grid system, dark green, crisscrossing and bisecting the land; it resembles a giant board game. The sky is muted orange, and I have a feeling there is something lurking in the increasing shadows that dusk has introduced. Someone who I am with shows me around their flat. From the window I see abandoned car parks, and in the distance lakes and mountains, though this view is partially obscured by smoke rising from refineries that seem to encircle the town. The light is falling away. No-one is on the street when I am taken to the next house. The view from the window is the other house. Each subsequent place I am shown around offers a view of the preceding property. I am caught in a loop of property viewing, with some unknown menace responsible for the trap I find myself in.

Forty Five

Last night: 'Something wakes me, and I look out the window to see our garden has been territorialized by an unknown neighbour. A sign is on the lawn saying 'Until June/July 2011' (I am not confused by this). There are dog toys spread about the place and a large looking dog who moves around in his sleep as I inspect the garden. Later, inside, I hear the neighbours and their kid discussion technological purchases. I instantly loathe them. I am up at the front room window when a car pulls up and a number of people jump out and run in to the houses opposite. This is quickly followed by a number of police cars and an armed response unit which attacks a door and promptly falls through in to the cellar of one of the buildings. The flashing lights of the cars are an unusual red and purple. There is a lot of shouting and the sound of small arms fire in the distance. Zoe, woken by the commotion, comes to the window. 'What is going on?' she asks. 'They're looking for m...

Sixty Nine

'The undercroft of a castle or cathedral. A female friend – blonde, round face, but unrecognizable on waking – is telling me about an amazing man, a prophet no less, who is going to lead her/us to some unspecified promised land. I am obviously sceptical. The undercroft is arranged with a series of desks, as in a Victorian class room (all tightly packed, high, scarred wood). Everyone is wearing a white gown. The class begins, and the students and my friend are subjected to a baffling array of visuals and noises projected across the entirety of the room. Somewhere in the darkness a man is laughing. I move slowly through the flashing lights to the source of the laughter to find Chris Morris, his hair long and curly, is in fact doing all of this as an elaborate joke. I try to explain this to everyone by I am drowned out by the ‘art work’; I run out of the undercroft, aware now that the practical joke was obviously at my expense.'