Christine and I are walking down the corridor in my primary school past Mr Powell's office. I tell her I always like this final stage of a project because you can just sit back and let it fall into place. She looks incredulous, knowing that we are way behind with our work load.
Am I moving into a new flat or a hotel room or studio? I make a phone call and watch the line of animals strolling in through the doorway. Two racoons peer out from the dark hallway. I stroke them gently. The miniature donkeys with fat worms crawling out of their eye sockets get a kick - I don't want them inside.
Some minor celebrities are shut inside the empty Big Brother house. No-one anywhere is watching. The programme makers have forgotten to leave any food for them. Gail Porter stares out into the unmanned camera lens.
In a dark claustrophobic room I am preparing to give a talk on my work. I haven't done so for a few months and my disorganised notes are spread out on the trestle table behind me. A woman in an evening gown introduces me after singing a cheesey cabaret number. I feel nervous and unsure of myself.
Everything is conspiring against my catching a plane for Berlin : 1) My students have given me bulky presents to take with me - that's extra baggage charges when I only intended taking hand luggage. 2) I am already one hour late and can't work out how to get into the airport.3) It takes me ages to find my ticket. Eventually I fish it out of the bottom of my purse - a tiny scrap of newspaper.And 4) I have forgotten Thomas' telephone number in Berlin and he has no idea I am coming today. Where will I stay?
I was just trying to walk from one station platform to another but against my will find myself in a small white room which has turned into a lift hurtling upwards. There are no buttons to press here. It feels like the inside of a nuclear missile stopping only at the top floor of a high building, where a terrified young woman clutches my ankles shaking uncontrollably. This lift has something to do with military buildup in preparation for a strike on Iran.
Having been warned by my next door neighbour that the council are out to rip us off, I am suspicious of the two men at my door. They are both dressed in white and are trying to gain access. "We are here to help you," they insist. I stand in their way. Now they are naked with parts of their body transparent plastic - they have apparently nothing to hide. Still I do not think I should trust them.
Seven week old Jack has a plaster cast made from his hand. It reveals a middle finger which is much more pronounced than the others. As we study it the number of digits shifts from five to six to seven.
The boy is beginning to understand his roots. No matter how decently he is treated now, his resentment for the damage wrought on his ancestors has to be avenged. As I peer through a small window in an operating theatre, I see a fantasy sequence playing out in his head. He is older now and feels nothing for his victim, a man who had once cared for him. Trampling on him he breaks all his bones and then forces the body through a mincer.
I conceal myself behind a curved reception desk in a vast modern hall. I am being sought by the man who is hiding from the woman behind the desk. Everybody is looking for someone. I stick my pencil up to signal my whereabouts to the woman. She snatches it, unconcerned about drawing attention to me.
Phil Mitchell hurls his son's plate of processed meats into the sink. His friend (who is apparently a peace activist outside Eastenders) reprimands him and walks out of the room, "Don't touch my clarinet while I'm out." The boy, now about five years older, heads straight for the instrument. It is made of ebony and is a complex hybrid of woodwind, string and horn. Apeing his father's manner, he snatches up the bow aggressively, nearly snapping it in half.
I hear myself saying, "Oh god, don't break it..."
Two intimidating men and I sit around a small table concentrating on a crossword puzzle. The clues are all meaningless to me. They read out one which is something about our troops on foreign territory. How can I begin to answer when I don't understand the question in the first place? Someone suggests "DEFENESTRATE". "It could be that. That's a military term to do with blocking in windows," I say, desperate to show a modicum of intelligence but completely out of my depth.
Later on in the day, after I have woken up out of the dream, the correct answer comes to mind: "OBFUSCATE".
Aurora and I have squatted a massive building with two other young women. We have to fix the flimsy lock on our door. The squat morphs into a DIY shop, with anarchists calling in at all hours and hardly any of them paying for the goods. We plead with them saying we have to pay for this lot in the first place. The man who is now running the shop explains that he lets people take stuff if their situation is really desperate, which increasingly it usually is.
Christine and I have been asked to paint a 2m x 2m x 2m room illustrating the story of a rat and a whale. There are a number of yellow objects I have hung from the clothes hooks and am including in the swirl of yellow paint leading to the giant rat. In her corner Chris is using a roller to print lines of delicate pastel marks.
I am on top of the roof of an immense house sorting out its website. Through the chimneys I can see an idyllic harbour scene - looks like somewhere in the South of France. I'm not supposed to be out here and know I will have to climb back into the building through the small casement window.
I explain to Simon the idea I have for the design for this year's GayShame festival. In the nightclub I want to build a false rotating floor with attached carnival floats that punters can jump into, like a gigantic roundabout. Simon seems interested but is not sure of the practicality of the design.
I am finishing off a mural made by my students on the corner of a corridor. Gradually members of the group join me, painting clumsily over my careful work. I am a bit annoyed to start with, then realise that what they are doing is fine and I shouldn't be such a control freak.
Five candidates are waiting to audition for a fashion show. I know I am too old and my figure isn't right but I am confident I could do a good job. "Just dance around a bit," the judges say to me. My movements are a bit awkward but I've always thought I dance quite well so I persevere. I notice some of the judges are smirking slightly. I decide to try out a few different moves like jumping up and staying in the air that little bit longer before I land. I've got their attention now. I spring upwards and hover about three foot above the ground with my arms outstretched. Yeh - no-one else can do this.
Am I near Paris or somewhere in South America? I was alone but have met up with a group of students in front of a massive spiral structure carved into a mountain. Two young male students don't want to climb up. "Start shouting OW!" the handsomest says to me. I do as he asks and he picks me up in his arms and carries me as if I am injured. This way he avoids going up the hill.It is thrilling to be carried by him but it makes me feel like an old man.
Only one teenage schoolboy has the authority to pass me. My heart sinks when I see him on entering the book shop - I scarcely know him. Suddenly he makes an announcement. "Is Robin Whitmore here?" I say yes thinking that everything will be ok. He tells me that in order to proceed he needs to ask me ten general knowledge questions and I must get four in a row right. Oh god."Which category - science or art?""Art." First question about some Dutch artist on the tip of my tongue. Pass.Second, "What is another name for a dentist's chair?""Alfriston," I think. (Dubious answer.)Third, "When did Vasco da Gama sail round the world?"I am really not sure that he did at all but know he was around in the 16th century. No idea of what date.And so it goes on. Ten questions and I get none right. Hopeless.
An abstract painter I know has produced a book of dreams that X has had. They are exquisitely drawn. One shows trees in a dark yard with X just visible in the shadows. The other is a watercolour of the white space through the trees. Considering that X has a vocabulary of about 25 words I can't understand how the artist knew what to draw. He insists that X described the dreams over the phone and that the images are exact.
A taxi is due to collect an older flirtatious woman and myself from hospital. Someone produces a Xmas tree wrapped in green netting which unpacks to form a tall witch puppet. Its long branch of an arm whips and crackles around the waiting room.
I have bought two horrible second hand dishes in a small shop near East Dulwich station. The shopkeeper is so friendly that I can't bring myself to point out the crack across one of the bowls. I ask her to wrap them for me. She produces a miniscule section of kitchen tissue which is not going to do anything. Once again I make no complaint because her manner is so amicable.
I am wearing a tatty medieval knight's costume and I should be onstage now with my group tapdancing to a routine I don't know. Quite frankly they are better off without me. Instead I am holding two saws and sliding down through marble arches and pillars into a vaulted hall where some kind of masonic ritual is about to take place. Below me I see a shining ghost of a knight. "Are you ready?" a voice asks and the doors open. A choir appears and the room fills with dignitaries. No-one seems to mind my presence despite my wild chaotic dancing..
Alice shows me an image by an artist she knows: a seared wooden fence overgrown with thorns sparkling against an open field. She explains that the image actually depicts a close friend. The artist uses advanced computer technology that converts a portrait into a landscape.
Acres of freshly ploughed earth stretch before me. I just need to stand back and let Nature take her course. Why do I doubt it? Why can't I believe that something will come from nothing? I can't force anything. I can only wait.
.
At a party to mark the selling of an old friend's palatial family home I watch as groups of teenagers shuffle from room to room. A few with long hair and school uniform I recognise from years ago; others are younger versions of current friends; still more are representative of today's youth. They all look like they come from privileged backgrounds. I am not sure if I can relate to them any more. They seem weary, detached, purposeless, stoned.
Ed asks if he can buy a raffle ticket. "You don't need to pay anything," I tell him, "This is my dream and you can have it for free."
I am a bit lost, running home from King's Cross. Usually when I run in dreams my legs are heavy, but this time I seem to have got the hang of it more and I am kicking my legs back forcefully for added propulsion. It is all a question of not visualising myself as a bad runner. I take huge strides, my feet barely touching the ground, leaning forward at an extreme angle. I get along much faster than usual and am very pleased with myself.
I'm trying to find the other half of a canvas backdrop - a crude painting of the sea. Did Kat place it face down at the back of the garden to stop the weeds from growing? I check and find a painted canvas but its not the one I'm after.
Standing behind a door I am using an electric saw to sever the head of a dead miniature camel. I can't bear to look but two people watch and report on the process. One of them is Jade Goody..
In the middle of the countryside on a summer's day, I turn back to check my bearings. I meet an old aristocratic woman in her mansion who introduces me to a tall young man. He is the son I never had. The old lady says, "He Is You - you are just a bit older. He is still here." I look at his youthful face and see my eyes as they once were, I see his energy and enthusiasm for life. He seems wiser than I ever was. I feel a mixture of elation and profound sadness.
I am manipulating Judy, my old pyjama case dog, in a model theatre. The scene is a violent sea with a shark heading towards the dog.
A number of fairy stories started in the Nazi era. They were created for children running from persecution to help them understand the notion of escape and overcome their fear. Here a flying woman guides little Red Riding Hood through the forest of Manderlay.
In real life he is slow and awkward and has a severe learning disability - in this dream he is tall and elegant and flirts with me on the dance floor. "You know I am a better person than you," he says, "You don't understand social boundaries and are condescending." I feel ashamed that I had never noticed how sophisticated he really is.
Dad and Mike are putting up a cardboard wall. "Why are you doing that?" I ask. Dad replies that they need it for the oil lamp chimneys. I look for an excuse to get away and then realise I should be at work looking after my special needs students. When I find them they are all acting totally independently and don't need me around.
In a Town Hall Council Room a group of blind men are engaged in some kind of movement workshop. They dance in a line preventing me from getting to the gents. When I eventually get through I discover it is the wrong door.
These stones talk giving instructions.These stones wipe themselves clean.These stones correct the work after a cack-handed child has left too clumsy an image on them.
A posh overbearing artist moans, "Darling what I don't get is why you still believe in all this art crap." "Art isn't just about the art market," I answer with great confidence, "You have cut yourself off from the rest of society. Your work is so elitist it is imploding on itself."
The stiletto boots I am wearing make me 4 foot taller and walking on cobbles is tricky. I settle down against some rough steps and take them off before jumping 12 foot down onto an uneven wooden surface. I land effortlessly but when I wake my toe is throbbing.
The insects I have brought indoors have climbed out of the jar and are multiplying fast. Lines of cockroaches, orange stag beetles, blue and red striped worms scuttle around followed by tiny plastic dinosaurs and elephants. The kitchen is teeming with these loathsome creatures and I am powerless to stop them.
I have travelled downhill in a DiddyMan van. I am with a bunch of kids dressed up as ducks with beaks and web feet. Knocking on Mum and Dad's door I crouch down to be the same height as the boy with me, thinking Mum won't recognise me.
Preston from Big Brother takes off all his clothes to reveal a naked body studded with tiny diamonds and other precious stones. The jewels are arranged in patterns reminiscent of an Elizabethan courtier's doublet.
Alice Lyons' work is compared to the scientist Raymond Petri. She shows a small flip book - a neat black and white drawing of a storm blowing in between two houses.
An androgynous man and his companion show us their photographs. They are like bland holiday snaps but there is an oddness to them. The last two show yellow moons where the men's own faces should be. "This is how we really look," he explains. "What you see now is a disguise. We have made a fantastic journey. In the year 3070 we paid a huge sum of money to travel backwards in time to your present. On the trip various things went wrong and our features became grossly distorted. We need help."
In the basement of a block of flats is a concealed bar selling cooked german sausages. Inside are glasses of Schnaps but little evidence of sausage or bread rolls. The barmen try to palm me off with a huge hunk of fatty steak on sweet bread, "That's all we can offer you," they say.
Two thugs pursue a young man jostling and hitting him. After telling them to leave him alone he hits one in the face and a terrifying fight ensues. He realises that what these men want is to be given a bloody nose. He punches them again and again. It seems to satisfy them.
I have drawn a delicate portrait of a young actor. I love the image which only works when the light hits it from a certain angle. The actor is unhappy with it and returns it to me. The drawing morphs into a speaking doll with pink plastic crinoline. He removes its voicebox replacing it with voices of annoying performance artists. He tells me I must feed it -like a tamagotchi -or they will play on incessantly.
In the sittingroom of a rundown council house I am videoing a married couple and their teenage daughter for my show. The man is eager, the women indifferent. There is a heavy atmosphere, a sense of underlying violence. I ask the man, "Would I be right in saying that you occasionally lose control ?" He grins tensely ,"Its true, yes. It happens."
I am woken by warm bright sunshine streaming into my bedroom and I can't remember any dreams on this the first day of my dreamdiary exhibition. It is 5 o'clock in the morning.
