Forty Six and Forty Seven

Some how I missed March, so this is a double post to make up for the error. The first one is several years old, the second happened a few nights ago, which is clearly a reflection of my concern about given a conference paper on Monday.

'Toadfish, the Neighbours character, is dressed like something out of Miami Vice. He has a pony tail. He resembles himself ten years ago. I am guarding a woman who may/may not be Kristen, the woman Paul had an affair with. She is handcuffed to a pipe in a back room of the pub that used to be owned by Lou. Men are coming to get her. I hide in the building as they peak through the windows. Eventually one gets up the courage to come to the door. I greet him, saying ‘Look, this has happened once before, and I will kill every one of you.’ He takes no notice, so I pull a pipe on him, beat him and stab his associates. I am convinced this is a memory of something I have done before, except, of course, it is not.'

'In a long strange room, similar to somewhere along the second floor in Wentworth. A panel of short men, one of who is Robin, asks me questions about my work. Each answer is greeted with laughter, but rather being unsettling it is a mark of respect in a culture I am apparently unfamiliar with. I join in. We cover a great many topics, each one greeted with similar mirth. By the end of my time with the bizarrely sized men my face hurts and I am unable to speak without pain in my neck and upper shoulders. What was so funny?'

Comments

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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