Skip to main content

Sixty Two



I am an unsuccessful dectective - so unsuccessful I cannot even spell my own job correctly - with a disabled son. I am attempting to find the killer of a woman in Cambridge, murdered by Lion's Yard, her body found grasping a ladle. Somehow I know the outfit worn by the killer is blue/green/grey and I am compelled to look for evidence in the shampoo aisle of a local supermarket. By chance, over the road, I spot the killer queuing to get in to a Pizza Express. I give chase with my partner, who now exists. The killer leads us to a rooftop which seems to be similar to Hadid's re-imagined transport museum in Glasgow, where my disabled son is intent on killing himself owing to my neglect. We attempt to reach him, but before we can he rolls off the roof. I assume he is dead, but when I am eventually persuaded to look over the edge, in an exchange reminiscent of Brad Pitt at the conclusion of the film Se7en, the chair is empty. What sort of elaborate prank is this? When my partner tells me to look closer I note that my son is actually dead, but reduced to a bloody mush. I am crying, as is a female onlooker and her daughter. I turn to the daughter who says 'I only cry when mummy cries'. I am unable to apprehend the murderer.

* I like the cheeky copyright notice that has automatically crept in to the picture.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fifteen + Sixteen

Long pause between posts owing to house moving and a lack of internet connection for over six weeks. Most frustrating. The intervening period has however furnished me with some new and skewed meanderings inside the subconscious underworld. The first, as you can guess from the reference to a certain daily newspaper, is from a while ago. The second (a double post to make up for the absence) came from a book I found whilst packing that contains notes on a defunct record label, conversations not appropriate for verbal discussion and occasional nocturnal recollections. 15. A warehouse, not dissimilar to Asda, where everything comes in multicoloured stacked boxes. Most boxes hold copies of The Times. I tell someone that they're not selling because they're not as cool as the new Berliner format Guardian (depressing how sad I am even in dreams). Later, am on an island, a little like the one in Lost. At one point I even ask when Walt is coming back. There are a crack team of commandos a...
3 comments
Read more

Eighteen

This was probably the first dream I can remember having since moving back to York. It obviously harks back to specific childhood memories, blended with the usual cast of people from when I was younger (except the comedian). Misc sexual references to trains I would assume is related to Hitchcock, but perhaps Zizek is the best judge of that. Lots of symbols to wrap teeth around. 'Wandering through Putteridge Bury. An indistinct beginning, following that much traveled road to the farmhouse and dried up pond. A man spins a sports car on some gravel alongside a barn conversion I am unfamiliar with (I realised when I work up that I did know the barn...odd that whilst asleep my brain wouldn't recognise it). I walk along the track to where the old white house should be, next to the greenhouse my Dad used to own. Instead, just scrub land and some kids jumping on a knackered trampoline. I meander towards what I assume is Great Hayes; there is a long row of portaloos by the roadside. I fi...
2 comments
Read more

Thirty Two

A final post for the year, sent early to avoid my forgetting; 'I am planning a holiday with old Uni chums, in much the same way as the TDEER weekend happened. I have to travel in advance of the group by train to scope out where it is we are going. Whilst on the train it becomes obvious to me that I have forgotten completely. Never mind, I'm in Norwich suddenly, except it is The City's version of Norwich, so part St.Ives, part LA. I've reached the centre on the Uni bus, which I was inexplicably not charged for. A teenage couple behind me serenade each other, in a way not dissimilar to Palomino Molero in Llosa's book of the same name. When I disembark, I walk around and look at the long bearded men that seem to populate the promenade. Following a kid through some back streets I emerge at UEA, but an odd hydroponic style version where everything is under three inches of water. My camera won't work. When I try to take pictures with the faulty camera, a man holds a p...
Post a Comment
Read more