The Garlic Cheese Bull

I am with a bull, in a wooden crate, inside a cold bus stop. He is made of garlic cheese, and has no visible eyes. He talks to me. I taste some of his skin. He is worried about going off. I tell him that he will be ok until tomorrow, when the sun rises and he will melt away. He is trying to break out of his crate. I make my excuses and leave.

I am at home. It is also work. Strange small pink items of furniture are everywhere. There is mud on the carpet.
A lidless jar of mayonnaise is under the bed, rotting.
Work are having a refit. The room is full of tasteless items decorated with knives and forks.
In a shop next door, they sell balalaikas alongside sweets and magazines.

Third Eye Squeezing in a Japanese Garden


I am in a strange place. Everyone is very hippyish and wears rainbow colours. I buy multicoloured clothes and grow my hair long and dye it a rainbow of colours. I seem to fit in. But I don’t really know anyone here yet, just a few nodding acquaintances from a party. I am going through some blue doors. People are gathered near them discussing where to get a drink. They suggest a place called The Waterwheel. I tell them I only drink water now.
I squeeze through the blue door and into a strange glass building with many interesting levels and staircases. I think “Whoever designed this was a retard” as I try to figure out how to go down a level. The spaces look great, but are not designed with humans in mind.
David Salas has moved to this strange place, with its ornate Japanese architecture and strange customs and ornamental gardens. I always get lost on my way to his place.
I have gone in the wrong direction. The path ahead is blocked by a line of ornately engraved robotic jackals. As I walk towards them they bark and look ferocious, but once I get past the first one they transform into silvery engraved robotic lurchers with no eyes, vying for my attention. There’s a pecking order and I have to give the top dog his fair share of attention.
There’s a gate at the end of the path, so I turn round and head back. The robodogs follow until I leave their territory. I give them a final fuss as I leave.
I make it David’s only after negotiating the strange network of oriental gardens. There are no fences or clear borders, just a subtle change of design between public and private spaces that must be carefully negotiated as one travels, so as to avoid causing offence.


At David’s place we have to be quiet. He has had complaints about noise. This seems ironic given the large group of drunken teenagers outside his place.
The building becomes a school. Ian is the caretaker. He recognises me despite my change of appearance. I am looking for somewhere to eat my lunch and write on my iPad. I had been outside, but it started to rain.
I pass through many hallways. In one large hall, teachers are preparing for a parents evening. Art is glued to the floor, and a space for a sign language interpreter is being constructed from papier-mâché. It will be a smooth background with no distractions to make understanding easier.
I am staying at someone’s house while I am teaching. Outside I hear parents encouraging kids to make sure everyone’s included in their games. I realise I should leave my jacket and bag with my ipad and other stuff here, not out in the rain like I had been doing.
I look in the mirror and realise how untidy my beard is. It detracts from my beautiful boyish face framed with rainbow hair and clothes. I cut and shave off my beard. I notice underneath my skin a spot on my chin. I squeeze it but it only grows, moving across my skin magnifying many similar eye like spots on my skin. I squeeze but it won’t explode. I pull the skin away around the spot and it shoots pus across the room.
Snowy, my dead dog, comes in, whining. I let him out into the garden as I continue to get ready.

The Infinite Song of the Indonesian Golem


I am walking by a canal explaining to a guy about various  bits if software he may be interested in. I mention the infinite song remix site. He has never heard of it. 

We find a mannekin with a Russian military communication system on it. I put something radioactive in its eye and write “infinite song” with my finger on its forehead. It laughs. It has come to life like a golem. It has no memory it is surprised to see its Indonesian features in a mirror. I adjust its face. 
It begins to remember its former life in Manila, where it had many lovers and performed on the stage. It is gender less. It drinks tea but I can’t think how it goes to the toilet. 
I’m at work. Tom has bought some dope that we smoke off a tiny circular plastic bong. I am teaching but quite stoned. The golem is putting on a stage performance. There is Thai music. Some of the customers join in. I see that when a plant dies, it is replaced by a candle. This will always happen while the golem lives. 
I am in a car with a customer. She is accelerating along a dark narrow road. She asks me to steer. I keep screaming at her to stop. Our lives are in danger. Eventually I jump out of the car and she crashes into another vehicle. I ban her from my workplace, as by refusing to listen she nearly killed me. 

Strange Art of the Double Decker Hot Dog

I am in Shane and Matt’s house. It is a huge mansion. It was previously a technical college and there are many strange works of art around the place.


I am with David Salas and a group of people. We are researching a film. I am telling the group about a long walk to Greenfield, a small place on the edge of the Pennines. There’s a blond woman in the group who likes me. She really listens to me and is generally interested. I like this a lot. 

I’m looking for a toilet but can’t find one. The house is huge. I find a room with grass on the floor and a loo. A large group of pensioner tourists come in before I can use it. 
Outside crowds follow a double decker bus selling hotdogs. All I can think of is how much I could use a drink. 

Voronoi Wings of Electric, Filigree Light

I’m flying down gothic dark corridors to the music of Rudimentary Peni.


My dark wings sweep over people. I use echolocation to detect patterns in the walls.
I wonder if people are like a ripple on water, having no real existence, being just a temporary arrangement of matter. A collection of behaviours that pass for a personality.
I am at Seabrook Road. It is late at night. We are watching a Chinese  nighttime TV station that doesn’t broadcast at night. I am dozing in dads chair with my iPad. Mum is asleep on the sofa.
A Chinese guy comes in and changes channel to something quite noisy. I squint through my eyelids to see what it is. Some documentary about slappers on Channel 5.
He leaves and I turn the TV off. My mum goes to bed. The TV turns itself back on. I turn it off at the plug. It struggles and slowly restarts. I swear at it and turn all the plugs off. It is some evil spirit trying to intimidate me.
I go up to my room. It has red walls, not green. The spirit is banging my door. I open a window. I am the Spirit of Turbulence and I fly around my room with Voronoi wings of electric, filigree light, singing, healing old versions of myself in this small room. I ask the spirit to reveal himself. A wall becomes mirrors, then glass. I fly at it until there is a break. Beyond a huge werewolf like creature is trying to attack me. I grab his jaws and wrestle with him, biting his sensitive nose into submission.
He is tamed, and now on my side. He asks if I’ve ever had sex with a liver pâté sausage. I say no. (A clear reference to ‘fucking your liver’). He says its not enjoyable. I believe him.

The Military Hotel and Boats in the Sky

A hotel. It is decorated with stuffed falcons. The clientele are mostly military. They stand in the hallways soaping their heads. They like the place.



I have left the bathroom, with its vulva shaped toilet enclosure, and I am trying to find my room. It appears to have vanished. 
I am in Wolverhampton. There is an air display. Tankers and other ships are in the display. A boat falls to earth nearby. A hovercraft lands behind me. I cannot film it as it has stealth disruption technology. 
I am in a classroom/hostel at the back of a pub. I have left cards and paper everywhere. It is a mess I need to clean up. I am listening to a hypnosis tape to cure alcoholism. I can still hear it when I take off my headphones. 

The Global Effect of Buying a Jacket

I’m wandering through a cathedral, going for a shower, as its also a hostel. I begin walking from a car park, carrying a towel and toiletries, through a narrow corridor, security people are looking for a trouble maker. The nearest showers are full of people, I decide to head over to the more obscure ones deeper in the cathedral. A man grabs at my hood and asks me where I got my jacket from. “Large” I say, having misheard him. 

The inner part of the cathedral has a courtyard more Korean or Japanese in its architecture than the European style of exeter cathedral. I cut through and past the high altar. There’s a service happening in the vestry. I don’t want to interrupt so I head back to the other showers. 
On the way a young family lift their pushchair out onto a road. I follow them. Olly is walking with me asking about my jacket. I wonder how many people have been affected by my decision to buy it. From the growers of cotton to the manufacturers and retailers. All interlinked and influenced by my decision. Olly is winding up his backpack. He has to drop his dog off somewhere.