I am offered a job as a writer. The boss wants me to write something as an example of my work. She gives me a verbal brief. My mum writes it down. Neither are clear. I have no idea what the end result is to be used for. I can’t find anything to write on, I scribble bits of my ideas in the margins of books and magazines. It is all disjointed, conflicting ideas.
I am living above a shop. The service is terrible. I decide to buy some paper from another shop. I get into the lift. The lift becomes a tram, gravity brake operated. Ollie is driving. The walls bulge around me. It isn’t safe. We stop the tram and get off. We fly over a market. At this point I am Iron Man. I talk about my creative failure, how, despite having superpowers and advanced technology, I have no inspiration to write for what should be a simple exercise about a man on holiday with his daughter.
We fly over a crowded beach. A concert is playing. I joke that the virtuoso keyboard player is probably Spider-Man.
I leave my friend, and fly along a river. I wonder why flying superheroes fly so high. Surely, they need to see ground features to navigate?
I drift along the river. On the path are cats from my past, an old train, and an apple with a head inside, slowly eating its way out.
I wonder if I’m still tripping from the 80’s. I remember the multiverse. Somewhere, my parents are still alive, and every cat, dog, I’ve ever known, and every fart I smelled. This makes me laugh. I fly through buildings, damaging them, along half remembered streets.
I return home. I shout at my mother not to interfere. She is well meaning but her presence and the notes confuse me. She will not shut up, arguing her case. I ask her to listen. She continues to talk. I grab her mouth and force her to listen. She is shocked.