Friends in the Corridors of Power

I’m at a gig. Everyone musical that I know is playing. There’s indoor psychedelia, outside markets, acoustic jams, DJs on the quay. Walking around, I realise it’s three different events, with different organisers. I suggest that they organise it together next year, despite some of them having reservations about how they will split the money. I explain how the punters will get to see more of what they like, spread over more days, without clashes. We write down suggestions for next years bookings, grouping complimentary acts by genre, and mind mapping a structure to avoid clashes based on feedback from this years punters. As we work, I think how I can apply this in waking life, to create a live music booking group, who work together for the benefit of each other and the performers.

I head to a friends house. It is large, and has a layout curving through space and time. I remember a previous visit, going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, trying to move quietly, and finding myself in a kitchen, far away, as the house re-shaped around my steps.

Many friends are there, everyone I’ve ever met in Exeter. They greet each other, and me. The hostess lies in a golden bed, head inside a quilted capsule, equipped with devices to aid her sleep. I walk along, in search of old friends. The corridor curves, becomes an outdoor market, vegan cake on a narrow stall, rain dripping from a corrugated iron roof. I talk with a lonely man, who needs to get outside more, about how to play Ingress on his phone. I suggest he joins the side I’m on, slowly turning the planet green.

Around the bend. A work friend paints. She worries that I have her computer. She slaps paint on my face, and I slap her in return, noticing the faint abstract watercolour tattoo of the city that covers her face and body.

Another turn. An old girlfriend in a padded room. She struggles with a stuck zip. We discuss frustration, and the best way to lubricate zips. I promise to return.

Another room. This time an entrance to the house. There are turnstiles. An older woman questions my right to be there.

“Are you a Trooper?” She asks.

Troopers appear to be a bit like Boy Scouts. One is missing inside the ever changing building. I join the search, squeezing into tiny spaces behind toilets, pointing out rooms we have missed. I ask for a description of the missing trooper. It is very vague. Have they called him? No. They have used their phones as torches, and to make noises. I call. From a corridor curving from above, he strolls down, sad looking. I retell my own story of being lost in a kitchen in my underpants, and he laughs.

A yard. Dogs licking my face.

Racing Gregg Wallace down carpeted stairs and along a wooden floored corridor sat upon giant, custard filled pastries, ejaculating their contents as we shift our weight on the bends and damage them. The dogs run to lick at our custard contrails.

Drifting back to the hypnogogic boundary, my room is filled with a 3D grid of lights. I try to find a pattern, like playing Tetris, or Dots in 3D, some disappear, new ones shift into place, I realise I can make the small connections, but the plan of the overarching algorithm is, at this moment, beyond me.



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