Dusk’s optimism

These are the shadows embracing, the firm embrace of dream-time loosening, loosening. What strength drawn through the light milk of translucent morning stirrs the consciousness; arms stretched and hands posed as to admire jewellery.

These are the thoughts of uncertainty which melt with the dawn, voices not your own, typeface characterised in colour. If this is the wariness of dawn its partner must be the optimism at dusk.

Your footsteps have been walked before, we call them the witness of strangers, only with the addition of clunking chains. Maybe the touch of fabric against skin, slightest whispers of leaves, twigs, branches, rustling in the chase. Footsteps of a Victorian gentleman starched and bearded: else a lost woman holding up her hand to shade light and deflect attention.

In our hands grasped, an orb, purple and shocking-pink; these are the reputations we do not realise are held by others. Heavy, unusually warm, our bounty we are eager to hide under a plenitude of x’s. Imagine the jagged donut-hole.

Our ironic egg.

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from a fiction

Typewriters. There’s a meme. Orchestrated, drumming as would impatient people at bus-stops, fingers against timetables. Maybe the typewriters created the timetables. Smoke in the circles, circles as lines. But the typewriting people – me, as one, there are others – indicated something. There were voices, but I cannot recall them now. There’s a characteristic of dreams; voices and sounds rarely remain. If anyone says different, potentially they’re being untruthful.

So if not only typewriters, what else? A house, a very nice house. Three floors – maybe more? Certainly expensive. Wallpaper, patterned, ever-so-slightly raised, suggestive of a show-room. Carpet, white, I had to take off my shoes as I could see the mud I was bringing with me. There was two showers in the one bathroom….was there? Certainly [X] – who I have not seen for ages – was there, dressed in a manner I have never seen before in real life. So fantasy? No, plain sight, just ordinary. Not that kind of dream.

Something else. Or, “other”, then, but I cannot recall. There was three wake-ups this morning, for house, and for typewriters, and for some other interruption. My stomach currently swims with too many full bowls of Sugar Puffs and milk (my fridge houses only milk and pasta sauce). Was it family, in the third chapter of the dream?

I cannot recall.

death to politicians, and also me

So, another dream of note. Its conclusion woke me up – Gordon Brown and I think Alan Duncan but could have been someone else – in a business or shop of some kind. The owner burst through a door, killing us all with three clean gun shots to the head. Focusing here on something other than me dreaming of our Prime Minister, work instead on the hyper-realism of some of the details – shimmer of light against the windows of passing traffic, the headmasterly click-scrape-click of shoes against pavement. We ended up talking about voting reform, I think, but prior to this I am sure that the men to whom I was talking – and in my dreams they may have been a representation of Mssrs Brown and Duncan – were bouncing and skipping along elevated platforms at one point.

The assassination was a conclusion to a sprawling mass of narrative. A very attractive and buxom young woman was the lead character of an entertaining musical in which I played no part. As though the brain was channel-hopping, I watched as she stole money through some form of credit card scam, than sang about it during a song-and-dance number straight from the most camp Broadway show imaginable. Quite what this long entertaining passage (three, five, maybe more minutes, or so I perceived) was doing filtering through my consciousness I cannot gather.

I wake with a murmur of babbling recollection. Dreams fading from a stained colour to white-noise, and then disappear into translucent frames vanishing into the air. Silence of a deeper, darker form rests in the room. Onwards, push the important thoughts and considerations, onwards away from dance routines and death. Far more relevant things to consider now…For one, dreaming about Gordon Brown, good lord….

trauma in dream

Dreams are, mostly, collections of thoughts and memories sewn together by a thin and sprawling narrative. Weight and meaning is negligible. Within an hour of waking images from them fade into translucent frames of memory at the back of the mind. There is a dull, persistent throb in my head, I notice, pulsing.

In the dreams melting from instant recall, a market with an unusual layout over many floors and layers; a doctor’s waiting room with a number of entrances, into which I would enter with a silent comedian’s grace. Moments of hyper-realism in dreams always interests me – each colour and style on fabric stalls, seeing potatoes being sliced, the shimmer of water on the backs of dead fish. Having to walk through a procession of actors in costume, even sense the stutter in the walk as some blocked my path. Somewhere (or time) else in the dream a journey around a dismantled railway line, and a swooping camera shot straight from the hyperactive cinema.

The meaning of all this is clear, at least deep down. Many elements are, of themselves, meaningless; memories given a storyline as though cut-and-spliced and glued together. The resulting floatlessness knocks me, the remaining grip of sleep tightens, pinches. My natural reaction is to assume meaning, even warning, but I should know better than that.

From the corner of one eye, subtitles flash across the screen like painted snails.

angels dancing on the head of a pin

Growing up certainly has its struggles. The younger me wandered around town thinking, no, dreaming, of being a writer, going so far as to invent holidays and travel stories on the hour or so spent walking from home to an arbitrary place on the outskirts of town. Today I wonder the ease of which someone could dream of becoming younger.

Finding somewhere to rent – the concept of buying a house is total Alice In Wonderland territory – with such a tight timeframe exhausts and bemuses me somewhat. Those twin deamons, Mr Fate and Mrs Fortune, have assisted the Darlingian Bounce by brushing up house prices. Estate Agents assume my solo status offers deep pockets. Looking for rooms to rent is a peculiar game, a form of real-estate reality television game show, with total strangers many in number walking into the studio half-way through the Bonus Round waving a cheque like Hazel Blears gazumping before you know what’s happened.

I walk from each To Let sign looking similar to a minor character in a low-budget French film. There should be close-ups of my hand running across fences and out-of-focus shots of my shoes. There are clocks ticking, and spoons clattering, and fuzzy white noise from radios, and it’s all in my head, but out there is a reality I cannot find the deposit for. Never mind house-hunting, never mind finding counting angels dancing on the head of a pin, I couldn’t find a barn-door with a banjo at this rate.