Kev (who died almost fifteen years ago) brings some fizzy orange to me in bed. I didn't want it but I am touched by the gesture. He pours it into a plastic flannel bag. "Don't worry," I say not wanting to hurt his feelings, "I'll drink it out of that. By the way, I don't really drink fizzy orange any more. Water will do next time."
I look down at my foot and notice I have an extra toe growing by the side of my fourth toe. Then I see another has sprouted in between the first and second, and then just behind my big toe is another huge one. It's all really disgusting. I can't see any other way forward except amputation.
Changing your life is more difficult than you think. I open the door and inside is a huge block of words and sentences all tightly packed on top of each other, like rock strata. The block only just fits into the doorway. To make any changes I am going to have to edge it out inch by inch before I can chisel or cut into it. It seems an almost impossible task.
The Germans have just dropped some kind of slow release biological bomb on London. I gather my sisters together and tell them to get out of the building fast and meet later by Marble Arch. I see an aerial view of railway lines and roads exploding. I find myself crawling peering down at hands buried beneath the rubble. I am one of the survivors. We are going to be OK.
I am sleeping in the ruins of an old abbey. I have to get up to turn off the music blasting from the sound system. My friend Keith (who died thirteen years ago) is trying to sleep in the next room. Another young man, lying on a crumbling ledge, has been woken by the noise. As I return to bed I notice air is being pumped through an ancient air conditioning system buried amongst the rubble.
I am in a squat with some other people. There is no electricity, yet when I look at the ceiling a mysterious dot of blue light winks softly through the plaster. It seems to come from a spot where there had once been a fluorescent light strip. There is the feeling that the room is like an old sleeping computer.
A man shows me a group of purple parsnips in the ground and explains to me that they will have a purple turnip as a mother. As we dig down, the soil turns to thick black liquid and I find myself under the surface closely inspecting these parsnip/turnips. They are choked with ivy and water weeds. I pull one and deliver it up to the surface. It is now a small dog's tail and wags with pleasure at having been set free.
We are all sitting watching an old Nazi propaganda film showing Hitler acting as a teacher. His twelve year old pupil sits in an armchair. Hitler treats him roughly, explaining that you must exercise firm discipline or the boy will become disfigured and grow a swollen turnip head. With each crude edit the boy looks worse for wear until eventually he is a corpse in the chair.
It is a cold grey day by the sea and one of the twins from the 80's boyband Bros turns up in a sports car heading to the beach for his regular swim. I decide to go for a swim too - I haven't been for a while. The sea is too cold even for a Bros twin, and he goes into the swimming pool instead. I go downstairs into the basement to the changing rooms. They seem empty and waterlogged. "Is it open?" I ask one sleepy guy. He nods pointing to an unmanned cash desk.
I am in my old teenage bedroom checking through my notes for a physics exam tomorrow. I didn't write anything in sentences, just broken English that makes little sense suggesting I have just guessed at answers to difficult theoretical questions. I fly into a rage, throwing books and bottles at anyone who comes near. "Leave me alone!! I need to concentrate," I scream like a kid having a tantrum letting rip to such an extent that it becomes peculiarly enjoyable.
In a scrubby field a powdered Redcoat sits astride a white horse. Behind him an apologetic older man dressed similarly. Suddenly there is a commotion and a wild boar darts out into the long grass pursued by a motley crowd of dogs. There is nothing to be done to stop them from killing it but Hazel rushes in and does her best. The boar is slaughtered with a mallet brought down on its head. Hazel is mortified and returns to me shaken.
I am at a party where two bags of cocaine have been delivered. We somehow know that at the end of the dream the police will find the powder easily and will go on to arrest us all. Despite this, when it is time for the police to arrive, we desperately search everywhere for a hiding place. Finally I shove it under a couch knowing full well that this is where the police are due to find it. There is a sense of inevitable fate that we race towards and are powerless to prevent.
I am scared to call in at my neighbour's flat. I am sure he has been shot dead. I know he lives on the top floor of the council block. Is it at number 150?
I am on my way out of the hospital - all my tests were negative. At the bedside of an old woman I punch the air in celebration. But where is the exit?
A blond opera performer is repeatedly put forward as my potential future bride. I am not interested. As the cast line up I know she will be at the end of the row and I try to arrest the action. I am foiled - she disappears concealed by two glittering divas who chase me into a lift. Endless velvet shutters slam shut where the lift doors should be. The scene changes abruptly and I find myself in bed with some big black creature jumping on top of me.
Five barn owls sit on top of a public school building. They belong to some dodgy teenagers with aggressive fighter dogs. I notice that two of the birds are vultures now. The boys are goading them into some kind of action. What sinister game do they have in mind?
This is a community project where we observe the process of life and death. A group of young children demonstrate eating pasta as an example of one of the first stages of the life cycle. To learn what will happen to them when they die, everyone is made to watch worms eating potatoes . "It's horrible," one man says.
Over three hours or so the level of noxious substance in my gut drains away. It is like a liquid emptying from the shell of my body.
I was sick last night - food too rich and too much on my mind. This was more like a kind of hallucination.
The government are releasing prisoners early. A billboard poster shows two of the latest to be set free - one is a man in fancy dress, the other is Sophie in a pink nylon party frock with puffed sleeves.They are not criminals, so why were they in prison? It seems absurd that anyone should have locked them up in the first place.
Two male twins from somewhere like Srylanka are down in the basement looking for a Nuffield book of plans. They haven't seen me in a long while and acknowledge me with a smile. "Is it in your space?" they ask me. "I haven't seen it," I reply, "but it's possible." The twins' eyes merge together- it is difficult to tell which one I am looking at.
The rooms are crowded with teachers and support staff. One woman is painting a huge banner with the picture of an ugly insect on it. Every year not only does she take charge of the food but she always draws the same enormous image. When she leaves the others comment on how much she takes on, "It's too much. She doesn't have any calm space to teach. You have to have that space somewhere in your life, like a big calm sea."
Johnny and I have begun a project where we walk into different people's homes and work on charcoal drawings together. The finished images act like magic spells drawing out the troubles and worries of each household.
I am compiling a list of Links for inclusion in my book or on this blogsite. As I walk from room to room I drop a few of them on the floor.
There is a vague memory of an earlier complex dream about a young man. Now we see the workings behind this dream. Two wise women vie for the strongest influence over the man's actions - both have blazing auras down the sides of their bodies, one is white, the other a lurid green.
Don't remember much. Something about drawing this image of a man holding a candlestick. In the dream my drawing was made blind and the candlestick is positioned hovering above the man's hand.
Back in the sixties, Nixon is bombing Vietnam and I have been ordered to use a machine gun to control my class in the supermarket. I refuse. I notice various men being thrown out and beaten up in the alleyway outside. I go to offer my help (after the beating) to one man. He tells me he is OK, then grins flirtatiously and says he likes how I dress like Isaac Newton. I end up taking part in a violent demonstration against the government.
I watch two 1970's comedians as young men. They are playing out a scenario where one is pretending to have learning disabilities and is dribbling his food. I find the humour uncomfortable. One of them turns and winks at me. Then, as a joke, he simulates shooting the other in the mouth. It seems the natural progression for this fashionable style of comedy.
This dream has told of a long complicated story of a couple who had been young lovers. After a tragic misunderstanding they split up. We cut abruptly to a scene where the pair are reunited in a park and are thrilled to see two previously sick older women restored to full health. I search for a connecting scene. Are we in their past, present or future? Wherever it is I know it is the right place to focus my thoughts.
My hands appear much broader than in my waking life. They are hardy and reliable and have known physical labour. I realise good dreams are like these hands. If you work with them, they too become a source of strength.
Using two thin paintbrushes bound together I am inscribing a word in the air just above ground level. Tony S (a childhood friend I have not seen in 40 years) takes my camera and begins to photograph the invisible letters. I point out that you need to use Spray Mount to make the word show up in the photo.
