Raining Lucidity

I am in the army. We are yomping from the city to countryside. Two large military vehicles pass us by. We wave at the guys inside. They have it easy. They have a ride.

We reach the end of the roads and set off across grass. I can’t understand why it’s so easy to run across. I look up and see the transport vehicles are flying. They appear to be giving us some lift. We make sure we run underneath them.

We are lifted off the ground and carried for some distance. The vehicles move to land by the sea’s edge, we prepare for a drop landing, but in fact it is a gentle set down in the surf.

We are in the wrong place, and return to the transport. It flies into the city, landing on a concrete platform. One of us is trapped in the landing gear. He’s unharmed but it will take time to free him.

Three of us explore the vicinity. I recognise it as Manchester. I shout at a passerby “Mate, where are we?”, and he replies “Crumpsall“. I think he’s wrong. I recognise Newton Heath when I see it. I tell the guys I was born a few streets away.

It’s raining and cold and we want to get out of both. Across the road, in what looks like a converted gents toilet with stone cladding on the outside, is a club. In large gold letters, with a swastika, “Nazi &Uniform Club”. We’re in uniforms so I guess we’ll fit right in. At least it’ll be dry.

Inside a strange mixture of men slump on old sofas. It is too hot, the heating is full on. A younger guy with a thin dread combover and ridiculously variable beard is playing computer games. No one is pleased to see us. We sit on an empty sofa, glad to be out of the rain. Combover dread talks to us, taking the mick out of my mates bindi. They all look ex military. I talk to combover. My waking life job has taught me how to deal with people. He isn’t ex military. He’s spent his whole life in front of video games.

I’m in a surreal version of the house I was born in. Orange linen blankets are on the bed. There’s something in my parents bed, but its not them. Just some writhing machine with a wig on. I hear the words “spam,wrist,sandpaper,vagina,” coming from it. And the sound of automata.

Outside I follow the tiny dirt road around the bend. It’s smaller than I remember it, and flooded. I wonder why so many of my dreams feature water. I walk to the front of the house. I critique its design: it is not a terrace, and looks nothing like the house I was born in.

I walk away and notice two more roads. A main road, properly surfaced, and a side road, cobbled and quaint. I choose the side road. As I walk up it the cobbles are covered in Tarmac, seeping up from below. Old people engage me in conversation. Here I can make them melt into the hot Tarmac.

A young, short haired, blond woman appears. I cannot control her actions. She is not part of my dream. She has a small green bug resting on her cheek, just below the eye. She’s trying to communicate with an old man. I wipe the features from his face. She says to him “Think it”. I erase him from existence before she can read his mind.

She tells me not to continue, that my brothers and Chee are further up that path. All I can see up ahead are small school children. I walk up. I know I can defend myself. The children are evil and vicious, I throw the more aggressive ones over a low wall. An old man approaches with friendly greetings. In my anger I reduce him to ashes in a flash of flame.

I think of Bruce Lee, and self control, and close my eyes.


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