Non disclosure agreement


Most of this dream is subject to a non disclosure agreement, as it’s about work systems at my employment. What follows is the unredacted remnants. 

In front of him, a basket of rhubarb. 
I’m carrying a huge, metal wire structure with someone else, we weave past weeping willows, and talk of hiring photographers. We cross a road, and I meet up with some fellow Oliver Heaviside enthusiasts. We talk of hats like bats, and music on harmoniums. I leave my other wire burdened friend to carry that load alone, and join these Heavisiders in a fizzy ale, that we carry, and swig as we slip and slide down a square concrete helix, that people sit upon, legs dangling dangerously over the sides. 


The people laugh at my drinking glass, plastic, and in two connected parts. “Two halfs make a hole”, I say. They laugh. People walk out of a hillside, looking for a black mountain, not far for them to go, I think. 
๐Ÿ‘โ€๐Ÿ—จ๐Ÿ‘โ€๐Ÿ—จ๐Ÿ‘โ€๐Ÿ—จ๐Ÿ‘โ€๐Ÿ—จ๐Ÿ’ญ๐Ÿ’ญ๐Ÿ’ญ

Black Dog


I’m walking through a small town. It’s summer. Massive camper vans pass, on their way to Glastonbury festival. Everyone I know is going. I’m left alone, walking a black dog. 
We pass a guy walking lots of dogs, some nervous, some friendly, and one not a dog at all, but a young mountain lion. Friendly, it vies for my attention with a brown staffy. Both are cheeky, and I like them. I point out how big the big cat will get. The guy says its ill. It won’t live to adulthood. I notice marks on its neck from operations. I’m sad my black ferret isn’t here, he’d love them. We walk on. Into a park, to an old house, now a museum, we wander in and get lost, I’m not sure my black dog is allowed in here. I find a way out. I ask the black dog if she wants to play outside. She gets excited. She can smell the camper-wood-nail of her owners VW camper van. 
She’s not my black dog, but belongs to Joan. I hear her name repeated, and see her old face through distorted glass. The vision passes. We meet Joan at the van. She takes the black dog away with her. I shout as she goes up the busy High Street, asking if I should wait, but when she shouts back, I can’t hear her. 
I return to the park to wait a while, wondering if and when the black dog will return. 

Jogging with the Goomba


I’m making love to the Rev. C. She’s surprisingly ok with it. We discuss planned trips to Papua New Guinea and Paramaribo. I’m at college. She tells me to call her, when I’ve finished my course in tearing myself into a thousand pieces. It’s some kind of experiential Osiris course I’m doing. 
I’m running down a country track, rucksack on my back, a sporting Goomba jogs towards me, we pass, wordlessly. I turn at a bend, cutting across a farmers field. His German Shepherd, tied up in his yard, strains and pulls on a barbed wire leash. He gets into the field. I worry that he’ll attack me, but, instead, he merely sits over me, protecting me. 
His owner returns. Apologetic, a stay in his farm hotel is offered. I accept. The room has chocolate bars everywhere. Everything has a paper label tied to it. A cat sits atop a chest of drawers, very happy to see me. I decide to shower. The bathroom is huge, bedecked with flowers, water flows like rain from a shower head. 
I look out of the window. A dead cetacean lies in shallow water. A fisherman suckles on its dorsal fin. Behind me, MS enters with his dog, I tell him to use the showers first, and return to my room. 
I left the door open, and now, other guests, passing on the way to the shower, are helping themselves to my chocolate. I shoo them out. I cuddle the cat. Behind me, a short black woman comes in, fondling my buttocks. The cat tells me I’m irresistible. 
I turn around and hug the woman. She steps back, produces and electro mandolin, and leads everyone in a version of a song called “Stand Up”, that I’ve never heard before.
I feel very loved, and valued. 

The Operation


I’m in hospital waiting for an operation. Bored, I buy a kit car mini. I realise I don’t know how to build it. I hire in a team of Japanese engineers. We transform my ward into a garage for assembly. The only other patient is a frail old lady. I promise her that we’ll be very quiet. I have an operation. When I return to the ward, 12Y, it’s all gone. Just beds and boredom. I search the hospital pushing an in flight rubbish trolley. Are they called a gash? 
Belgians struggle with the concept of not boarding a plane unless they’re flying. I push past them. Outside, badly parked American school buses obstruct bends in the road. 
I’m looking for an address. I have the right road, but the numbers aren’t in order, like Tokyo. Policemen direct me. We discuss the state of my health. 
I walk past a woman, she is sat at a hospital desk by the roadside. She’s on the phone. She shoos me away when I ask to borrow a pen. I want to write down my symptoms. 
My scrotum is huge. At least two pairs of balls in there. I appear to also have another set, of as yet undescended, testicles. On my left thigh, I find, and remove a vestigial penis. 
I head back to my ward, passing private nurses at play. I wonder what they did, when they operated on me. 
โšพ๏ธ๐ŸŽพ๐ŸŽฑโšพ๏ธ๐ŸŽพ๐ŸŽฑโšพ๏ธ๐ŸŽพ๐ŸŽฑ

Escaping With My American Dreamgirl


America. Visiting friends. I stay in a huge futuristic hotel complex. I meet a girl who loves me. She wears my new jacket. It’s too big for her, but she looks cute in it. It’s hooded, and dark blue, and fastens like a duffel jacket. We are out here for a wedding. I have to return back to England, for work. I tell her I could stay with her forever, marry her, never go back. I explain that I live in a converted church, and don’t go out much. We laugh. I decide to stay longer, take time off work, and see what happens. 
We leave a van full of her grandfathers possessions in storage, the sign warns us that they are messy. We take a donkey and cart and set off to her home, a few thousand miles away. It’ll be an adventure. I’m happy. 
By the futuristic hotel, I lose her as she checks us out. The cart becomes a green plastic sheet, and I glide along the sidewalk, donkyless, but still moving. I slide past junkies and crazy people. One guy follows me, repeating the same beatbox phrase, staccato beats as he slaps himself in the face, shouting at nothing. It changes, like a radio station, “that’s better”, he says, “I was sick of that damn song”. 
I know his old song will return. But slowly, he is retuning the distorted self hate of his past, into a harmonic future, of beautiful memories. 
The storage business shuts down. Timelapse. Things decay around an old, carved wooden bench for two. I know this object will bring young lovers together, unaware of their existing connection, ancestors who loved each other, and lost each other. 
Workers clean the building up. As they leave, they take mementos. A wig. A hat. A St Patrick’s day flag. A dark blue hooded jacket that fastens like a duffel coat. 

Bo Diddley and the Roller Derby Pagans


I’m visiting friends in the USA. We take kids to a rooftop roller rink. One thinks I must be Morrissey. It supposed to be a roller derby, but it’s really some weird kind of pagan winter sun ritual. People and kids sit in a circle, chanting at the setting sun. I head downstairs into a wood lined chapel, a quiet space. Bo Diddley is there, in a framed poster, and as a ghost, discussing guitar design with another dead soul. I sit by them, and they fade. A TV on the wall plays a black comedy about a funeral home. 
Upstairs, a man possessed and partly dismembered plays the ukulele. His dog dances with excitement. 
I’m back at my friends place. They have too much stuff. Out of tune instruments line the walls. It makes me sad to see them. I need to be outside. I need more space. 
๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ๐ŸŽธ