Thirty Five and Thirty Six

Shockingly I managed to forget to post a dream for March, so I am here combining March and April in to one all consuming somnolencefest. Additionally, last night I had an odd dream in which a man named Mafooz was convinced I had slept with 'his girl' and waited with a gang of people outside my parent's house to 'beat me up'. When he learnt I wasn't in (I was, just spying from a distant window), he cut off the head of Mick over the road and threw it through my window as 'a message'. Grim. Any way...

'Lanark style, this one. In tenements of Glasgow, except at the time I think it to be elsewhere [?]. Find a small newsagents, with a labyrinthine underworld through the back door. The place is made of old fabric, and fucked stairs. I follow a woman through numerous passage ways, under wooden constructs and mangled embroidery. Her head is that of a freakishly large woman, but with shapely legs. Eventually I emerge at the beginning of the shop, where Dad is buying a card with his own printed message on it. They overcharge him. I point out they have spelt one of the words wrong.'

'In a house I apparently share with people from the PhD course. There is some sort of power outage whereby I need to go in to the basement to fix it. Tom is there, dressed in Safari gear, hitting his head off ironing boards and doors as he runs about chaotically. I go upstairs to ask Keith what is going on. He turns so slowly that I think he is trapped in time. He is unable to answer me.'

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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.'

A Disintegration Loop

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