The Spirit of Music

I’m at home. A huge house. Only my father and brother are living there with me. I use my mothers old bedroom as a studio. In the room, are the remains of a haunted piano, that a ghost used to play. My neighbour JB smashed it up with a hammer. In ruins, it is now stacked, awaiting removal. 
I turn on my midi keyboard, joking that spirits can’t control electronics. I’m wrong. Fast arpeggios speed across the keys, it discovers different sounds, and arrangement capabilities and begins to rock out. I turn off the power to the keyboard. It fizzes, and fades, then bursts back to life. The keys become a uniform black, melted by some unseen, unfelt, heat. 
I run out. JB and my family are there. They don’t listen when I tell them what’s happening. The walls separate and expand, and I can see the old piano, it’s parts exploded, but hovering in mid air, playing once again. I try to get people to see, but they look and talk at me, without seeing the beauty of the spirit of music. 
The music stops. I return to the room. A grey, hard to see, ghost dog comes in, about the size of a Jack Russell. I call it over and it fades into existence. The dog licks my bandaged hands, and slowly, the bandages transfer to the dog. I tell it it looks like the ghost of a mummy dog now. I follow it into the hallway, where my mother picks it up. We unravel the bandages, discussing how it’s best to be careful handling these things. As we unwrap, we reveal a human face on the dog, it figures out that because we called it ‘a thing’, that she isn’t human this time. She knows that humans treat animals, and each other, as things. 
We finish unwrapping. She’s like a dachshund with a human face, furless, wagging her tail. I look on the floor. Her ears, earrings, and nipples have fallen off. It looks like they clip back on. We put her back together. She’s the ghost dog of the Egyptian God Horus, back to save the spirit of music. 



D is clearing an old studio space. A concrete black box. It’s at a university. He has already removed his equipment. He puts scrap metal and rubbish into a soiled, old, duvet cover. In another bag, he puts clothes, that he had forgotten he’d left there. He realises that he will have to return for them later. The janitor asks when he will be finished, as another plan has been submitted from the room. He worries about this, but figures that getting stuff out by today, should be ok. 
The janitors stroll off, fondling hedgehogs that they carry. D goes to collect some final paperwork. He sees R in the office, stacked high with files. R asks him to shutdown the computer, as R is leaving to teach. D can’t find the files. They’re in the office next door. To get there, he squeezes out of a tiny window, across tall wooden shelves, attached to the red brick underside of a bridge across the Thames. One shelf is missing, and he has to crawl across a large piece of luggage instead. 
In the next office, on another shelf, D can’t find his shoes. J jokes about times he has played practical jokes on him, and smears mud on their faces. J and S leave through a door. D doesn’t have a key, and has to climb back along the precarious shelves. The tiny window is shut. D looks at booklets defining maritime flag signal meanings. The shelf begins to collapse. D tries to hold it back against the wall, with no success. He falls, landing in the wet mud of the Thames, now a cobbled road, full of construction activity. An estate agent, wearing a shirt and tie, but with a popped collar, walks by, on his mobile, and networking with everyone he meets working in the street. 
D looks up. Unsure of how to get back up. No ladder or scaffold to climb. He follows the cobbles, and sees a gap in a wall, poorly blocked by a red front door. He squeezes by, and re-ascends. On the path, he sees O, dressed as if he’s going to a wedding, but sleeping in a wicker basket. D passes, and enters the university building. It is a twisting web of stairways and corridors, off a central, square, design. 
D is stopped by L. There’s some vegan food he wants D to try. Every time D picks up a bit, someone else wants it. It looks like a red, mushy, tomato-cauliflower. He tastes it. Pleasant enough. He looks round to sees a workman spit on D’s dayglo yellow backpack. It’s an accident. D asks him to clean it off, adding ‘you twat’ at the end. This offends the workman. Instead he offers to let D punch him. D tries to reason, and the workman runs off. D follows, but can’t find him. 
Returning to the food, D’s bag is gone. He asks if anyone has seen it. S says yes, and they run after a crazy drama student dressed all in yellow. Finding her, her bag is made of yellow fur. Inside, only stage masks. D leaves, apologetic and disappointed. 
D finds the back entrance to his studio, now being used as a theatre space. He asks the company if they have his stuff. They say he is welcome to look, but that the performance space is cleared. D searches the dressing room. He hears knocking from a wicker picnic basket. Inside, E struggles to escape. She’s dressed in a mixture of bridal and belly dance costume. 
The company Director asks if D can help them. They’re a person short. The director shows D what to do. 
The director is sat cross legged on the stage, for about ten minutes, sewing. D enters, and follows a path along the semicircle of the audiences chairs, making a repeated sucking noise with his teeth, and frantically moving his right index finger between the two middle fingers of his left hand. When he reaches the director, he is to shake his head at him, in admonishment. D agrees to do this. There’s ten minutes before they start. D needs the toilet. The director tells him that the only one is on the opposite side of the square. The actors call this last minute toilet dash the ‘lady mile’, no one has managed to do it before curtain up. D determines to try. 
He doesn’t run, but walks quickly, using a stick with a prickly end to gain traction on the psychologically slowing carpet. At the corner, a choice of stairs and escalators awaits him. D slides down the slope between the two, gaining speed, and hitting the shiny floor beneath, slides away at great speed, dodging around people and dogs in his path. 
He sees kids on hover mats. These are thin membranes, with slightly raised areas, that you stand on to power and direct them. He tries one. 
He is successful. The play has begun, but D is back in time to take his place. He improvises, admonishing the audience as he enters. The audience are all characters from this day. 
As he reaches the Director, he says
“Do you know what a shit day I’ve had?”

Egg Rave RevolutionΒ 

I’m in Greece. I think the place is called “paradise” in Greek I watch a movie on a screen in the street. It is called two points, or something like that, and has the same story as a dream I just had before this one. The title sequence involves two white triangles on a black background. 
In both, there is a block of holiday flats. You can access the beach by climbing onto the penthouse balcony, and carefully climbing down. The guy living in the penthouse doesn’t like this, and blocks all access. He asks the names of people on the beach, to send them a bill for access. He wears on his head two triangles of cheese. I speak to a tall, Czech, anti Semitic clown narrator. He tells me Jews stopped him playing music. He’s a very tall racist. He shows me where he used to play. A canteen. The owner is restricting food to sausages and fried eggs. A man queueing is dressed in huge pieces of bread. I stab the owner with a fork. He is egg. I stab his friends he is also egg. Cooked yellow runny yolk leaks out of the puncture wounds. I walk on the water of a swimming pool, listening to a rave egg song. Underwater, pugs in cones of shame, look up at me as eggs fly in formation. A friend joins me and we syncopate egg lyrics. He guides me to a booth, where a smart young man waits. He is my choice to replace the leader. I pass the egg song onto him. 
By the pool, the owner relaxed. His chain bigger than mine. I jump on him, asking what he does. What job. Where his money comes from. He is confused. He tells me he is making a fish hook. The police arrive. They arrest the owner. By now everyone is shouting at him as though he’s a benefit scrounger, demonised as a parasite, which, as a landlord, he is. 
Back at the movie, I try hard to remember the name of the film, and the place. Psiparas? A woman I thought was a poster talks to me, trying to sell me belly dance CDs. 
I pass people from work on holiday. All wear suits. I’m underdressed. I tell them about the film. They tell me about crazy comments that’ve been posted in my blog. This blog. I head back to my hotel. Techs from a TV company carry in power supplies. We talk about making films from dreams. They say it’d need more bells and whistles. I disagree. They haven’t read Eugene Ionesco or seen Last Year in Marienbad. 

Scissoring in a Submarine

I’m away somewhere. I’m trying to decide if I should go home or not. I sit in a museum, with my luggage. Through a window, I see a large, inflatable, yellow submarine. Inside it, through the portholes, I can see lesbian pornography being filmed. 
At the back of the yellow submarine, bored passengers stare out of the windows, and listen to a tour guide. The submarine moves off. 
I see Akira,dressed as a pirate, pulling his luggage along. I rush out to say hello, but he’s gone. Back in the museum, grey men meet in the room where I was sat. A grey blanket covers my luggage. I take my baggage and leave. 
I wonder if I have a ticket home, I can’t remember. I see MH trying to block a drain cover, while arguing philosophy with children. I sit on a bed outside. 
On the wall, awards from my work. A mask of Captain America, with Mickey Mouse ears, covered in tiny, white, swastikas. A display tree, with price tags arranged by size. I blow on them, listen, and realise, for the first time, that they are tuned. 

SΓΌd Am Main

Cars turn in to park on grass verges. I cross with a man in a suit. We think they are criminals, but they’re just classic car collectors. We admire the vehicles. One is tiny, and I comment that I have a friend who collects and restores such things. We inspect some old bone shaker bicycles. No rubber tyres, no gears or chains, a primitive, single, brake. I begin to scrunch together the edges of two large circles of wool that I’m carrying. In the past, I have created a bike this way. This time, I’m making a wearable shelter.  
My suited friend is discussing languages with a group of children. They claim to be able to speak any language. He asks them to speak now dead aboriginal Australian languages. They can’t even pronounce them correctly. The children scorn him for showing off his knowledge at their expense. I point out that it was they, who wanted to show off. 
The children leave, and we cross a main road, discussing the nature of universal language. My friend maintains that hate is universally understood, I counter that kindness is the true universal language, that everything alive understands and appreciates. 
The pavement is blocked, so we walk on the road. I find myself stepping into the air, and drifting along the road. Below, a traffic jam descends into the dry earth. A voice from God, tells me not to to fear the traffic of SΓΌd Am Main. 

The Golden Pig

The golden pig

Sits on his owners lap

In the rocking chair
On an old tv

From the 70s

Faded blue

Of an Instagram filter
Walls curve into

collapsed ceiling

A stage hand bows

An acoustic guitar
My girlfriend

A black crocheted 


The False Freedom of the Pecking Order

I’m looking after my Gran’s house. It’s a large bungalow. She has three birds in a small cage. They seem happy, and have plentiful food. They squabble over a dead moth. Greed and the need to maintain a pecking order. I want to free them, to let them fly about inside the house, at least. I’m worried that they’ll escape out of a window. I walk through the house, making it safe for them. One room opens up, and becomes a huge, Chinese style hall. Some doors here I cannot close. Others belong to other people. A great door opens, and uniformed Chinese workers skateboard downhill across the hall, it’s floor now a roadway. I follow them, without a board, hovering just above the surface, atomising it as I go, leaving a blue wake behind me. 
At the bottom, I pull over by the curb. I walk back, to a furniture store. In a white, oval tube, a three piece suite, like something from the Love Boat, is stored. I scramble inside the tube, sliding over the furniture and out of the other side. I see another tube, the same furniture. I slide through again. This repeats and repeats, like an endless symbolic rebirth. Finally, I land in a furniture shop, surprising the owner, and his customer. 
Back in my Gran’s house, the lights won’t turn on. I open heavy curtains. It’s daytime outside. The birds are happy in the sunlight, in the tiny cage of their greedy, limited horizons.