The Golden Pig

I’m at the bottom of a cliff on a beach. Rubbish is everywhere. Environmental artists have been here, they’ve made all this mess. A pig whines at me to scratch his tummy. There are the remains of tomatoes and eggs by him. He looks sick. I ask him who did this to you, and he replies “you did”. I fed him omelette until he was sick.

I scratch his belly. Looking up the cliff, I see another pig, painted gold. It reminds me of Goldfinger. I think I must scrub him clean if I can climb up and catch him.

One of the artists is painting the rocks. Where the paint touches, the seaweeds and lichens die on contact. She begins to take small rays and whatever from rock pools and paints them to. Everything the paint touches shrivels and dies.

I try to explain that Dali wrote a short book about environmental art that doesn’t kill everything. She isn’t listening, killing more life by painting over its natural beauty.

I see some friends. J is going to drive us to a wedding. I’m not sure if everyone knows each other. I’m surprised to see C with a girlfriend. I pick up an empty, clear plastic container with a cross drawn on the bottom and use it to frame a photo of the cliffs. My eyes are the camera. My memory the film. I wonder how I got so far down the cliffs.

Interpretation: I am the pigs. I have hurt myself by trying to care for myself in the wrong way, and at the same time, I have tried to appear as a climbing and achieving Golden boy pig to the rest of the world. I have hidden who I really am to prevent harm to others. I’ve kept the burdens of my problems to myself. I’m aware of the similarities between gold and geld. I have been emasculated, and covered this up.

I have let myself and others paint over and slowly kill off my natural state, and made only vague suggestions as to a solution. I must clean the golden pig, so he still can climb, but has his own natural beauty.

I’ve been isolated from my friends. I don’t know much about them anymore. The empty camera 📷 is recycling the rubbish at the bottom into a way of seeing to the top, to progress. My eyes and memory carry the trauma that I suffered. I have a long way to go.

#dream #interpretation #gold #pig


The Cult of Writing 

This is something I’m working on. Content warning for sexually explicit language. 

Tim sits alone in the cafe, at a small corner table, awaiting inspiration. His face is lit by the laptop’s glow. He tries to overhear conversations. He observes people. No inspiration comes. The people here are bland. All sit quietly with pen and paper, and glowing screens. He walks to the gents. As he passes people, he glances at the words on page and screen. All are describing him, his clothes, his hair, his journey to the gents.
‘He is a short, fat, middle aged man, he has no fashion sense and probably voted for brexit’
‘Divorced, masturbates regularly and cries with loneliness afterwards. His Facebook feed is full of ads for Tena Men’
‘Had a bad homosexual experience as a teenager that has left him afraid of homosexuals and intimacy’
Everyone in here is an aspiring writer, seeking ideas in an echo chamber. Writing about writers who are writing about them. The creativity of the incestuous.
In the gents, Tim stares in the mirror. Overweight. Balding. Flecks of grey in his black hair and beard. Badly fitting pink jumper, cheap jeans. Varifocals that have seen better days. If he stays here for inspiration, the offspring of his writing will be a mutant, deformed by inbreeding. He needs to get out, where the real people are. The real stories. Lives not cushioned by trust funds and investments. Views not sanitised by middle class dinner party conversations. But where to go? 
Back at his lonely table, his laptop pings. An email from a friend, Joyce. 
Hi Tim
I know you want to make a living from writing, and I thought you should look into this:
Tim clicked the link. People buy this stuff? Orc porn? Troll BDSM? Jesus. 
A quick bit of research. Yes. These make money. How hard can it be? He scrolled down the list. He wanted to write something original. Something that hasn’t been done before. He checked a list of mythological animals starting at A.

He needed something new. Mass appeal. Something for everyone. He began sketching. How about a centaur, with big tits… and a huge horse cock. And wings. And a horn like a unicorn. It can jizz rainbows out of its horn. And a beard. So it can penetrate the reader with horn or cock, give them a titwank or suck them off, or they can bum it while it’s flying. Fuck it, let’s make it fully hermaphrodite. Hardly the literary masterpiece he wanted to create, but it might keep a roof over his head so he could give up his part time retail job. 
His day job sucked. The same old jokes from the same old customers, day in, day out. No price on it? It must be free, nice weather for ducks, the wrong vouchers and returns. Restocking shelves, dusting products, inspirational meetings with management. Working every weekend. 

So he started to write. He needed a structure, a story arc, a scaffold to hang events on. One thing he’d noticed, there wasn’t much alien porn, and that surprised him. Surely anal probing would have a market? A good place to begin. Make the creature an alien. Lands in a space ship. Couple camping alone see the ship land at night. Go to investigate. Get separated. Meet mystical creature and have weird parallel universe sex: performing multiple sexual acts at the same time in different realities. Until they are both in a threesome with the creature. Then a post script about the disappointment of going home, to ordinary, linear, monogamous sex. 
Not that he was having any sex, linear and monogamous or otherwise. 

As he wrote, the idea of the story began to leak into the every day reality of his life. Serving a customer, he notices a beard. Could the alien have a beard? Do people have a weird beard fetish? Looking at the chrome kettle in the staff room, what about metallic robots? Has anyone written roboporn yet? Could be a new market? Sex robots were in the news right now, at least, a discussion of the ethics around them was. 
After a couple of months, his hideous masterpiece is ready. He hates it. And that, he guesses, means it will be popular. Now he needs a title. ‘Alone with an Alien’? ‘Space Centaur Surprise’? ‘The Art of Multi-Dimensional Sex’? ‘Space Monster in the Wilderness?’ That’s catchy. That’s the one to go with. No one in their right mind would publish this, so he doesn’t even try mainstream publishing. Straight to online self publishing it goes. He waits a while. Nothing. Maybe 3 copies sold. He spends a little on very targeted ads on Facebook. Sets up a twitter feed teasing bits of the storyline. It works. The mythological creature pervs have heard about it. It takes off. This is what he’s been waiting for, enough money to live off from writing. At least for the time being. He drops a day at work. 

He starts work on a follow up. ‘Chrome Cock Cannibals’. Alien robots who devour humans while fucking them, through tiny mouths on their snake-like robococks. Actually Robococks may be a better name, he thought to himself. Sat in the cafe, using his new free time to write more, he was amazingly productive. All around him, sat the observational writers, flicking between a list of half developed ideas and Facebook, playing candy crush, being easily distracted by the arrival of an acquaintance. Tim didn’t have to worry about that. At work, he was friendly with his colleagues, but had no close friends. Except Joyce, now on another continent on the other side of the globe. Outside of work, he was a grey man, largely unnoticed by everyone. Maybe he should have been a spy? He sometimes thought this to himself, but he wasn’t very good at respecting authority, or following orders. And he got bored very easily. 
An email pinged up as an alert at the top of his screen. Something about publishing. He got a lot of those, now. But he recognised the name of a real publishing company, Refab and Refab. He open the mail app and read. He was being offered a deal. They would supply translations of his works, and promote him. He would get a big enough advance to give up his day job forever. They wanted to see what else he was working on. He sends them his working draft of ‘Chrome Cock Cannibals’. 

They ask to meet. Tim doesn’t like to travel. That’s why him and Joyce split up. All she wanted was adventures to write about, and all he wanted was to stay at home. Tim tried to remember his last journey beyond the borders of Devon. He had a vague memory of a classical music performance at the Loco Club, beneath Temple Meads station in Bristol. When was that? When was the last time he’d left Exeter? There’d been a walk at Exmouth, with Joyce, before she moved away. That was at least five years ago. He went to work, and then home. To the cafe to write. Reality had failed him, so he had, where at all possible, abandoned it. 
This was important though. He emailed, agreeing to the meeting. Though he hated spending money unnecessarily, Tim decided to optimise his travel and stay over for the least human interaction possible. A taxi to St David’s station, a First Class seat to Paddington. An airbnb on a canal boat in Paddington basin, and about an hours walk the next morning, to Refab and Refab’s offices in Bloomsbury. 

The Case of the Flaming Serpents 

I’m a robot detective. My name, in places where time runs forward, is Trey Taylor. My first name becomes trev when time runs backwards, and in the realms beyond death, I need no name, for what need is there of names when everyone you meet is filled with overwhelming awe at the discovery of their continued existence? 
There have been murders. Flaming serpents have been used to disembowel human targets. I’ve yet to find what links the attacks. The serpents attack the mouth, replace the intestines, and either slowly kill by interfering with the digestion process, like a parasite, or immediately, by disembowelling. 
I’m called to a home where flaming serpents are suspected. I enter through the open door. Inside, a servant wrestles with a serpent. It burns her face, splitting her head in two, but she continually heals, and the flaming serpents strike again. 
I realise there was no link between the previous targets. Someone was randomly targeting the population to see what resistance it offered, if any. Like an evolving species, adapting to the limits of a new environment. 
I talk to the servant, our flow interrupted by the melting and reforming of her head. She tells me she has something inside her, that regenerates her. The Cohort, she calls it. It counteracts the effects of the flaming serpents. They can’t kill her, merely inconvenience her for a while before she kills them. 
Someone is controlling the serpents. They’re the real enemy. I return to the training ground. I need a weapon to kill these serpents. I train with a chainsaw, using it as a weapon, practicing with my officer in a sand pit. 
The perspective changes. It’s a later time. I’m in an isolation camp. Everything I described was in a tv show. Old robots don’t retire, they end up here, isolated, in case my faultless memory reveals an unwelcome truth. The TV set flickers off. I walk across the grass. Larger robots come in, and grab any robot like me, I’m the last of my kind. This triggers a memory. Something I’d hidden. They are looking for me still. I changed my markings and serial number, swapped personalities with another robot. His life has not been so eventful. Programmed to serve, he was happy to help. The memories flood back. The case of the Flaming Serpents. I have to escape this involuntary retirement, there’s work to be done. 

Violence, Sufis and Hippos

I’m sharing a bedroom in a hotel . The other guy comes in, I’m in the wrong bed. We swap. I sleep. 
I wake up in the morning. Sleeping across our beds, and on the floor, are a group of Sufi saints, and two baby hippos. I pat one of the hippos. It’s tail wags like a dog. I get up, pass robes to the sufis and explore the building. There’s a boy with a gun. A real gun. He fires wildly. I confiscate his guns, both toy and real, and all the ammunition he has. He has a tantrum. I explain how dangerous violence is, that he must learn to express himself in other ways. I throw away the guns and ammunition, outside in the snow. We are near Winnipeg. 
J joins me, with two others. I have a flashback of a Turkish film we watched together, detectives in an old house searching for a missing, murdered family. 
I discuss with J what supplies we have, to get out of this place. We talk of friends we can stay with elsewhere. I throw her packs of cigarettes, as I don’t smoke. I spill soya mix on to the gravelly snow. As I bend to eat it, a man shouts a warning that its poisonous. 
I’m with a group of friends, in an apartment, waiting for someone to bring round Hawkwind’s ‘Sonic Attack’ for us to listen to. One of the group is the now-grown-up boy with the gun. He gets each of us alone, and beats and torture us. 
Back together in the same room, we jump him. I smash a bottle into his face repeatedly. We leave him unconscious in the hallway. I suggest to my friends that listening to Sonic Attack is probably a bad idea given our mental state from being tortured. In the hallway, the torturer has vanished. We search the building. He’s left. 
I go outside in the snow to work, clambering down blue steel constructions. I arrive at a large warehouse. R is there. He supervises people moving rugs, carpets, and bric-a-brac. There’s a room full of beautifully carved old wooden furniture. I worry about the torturer coming back. I check the entrances. He’s not there. I worry he will gain access under a false name. I walk around on the grass outside, always looking over my shoulder. I see hungover employees dozing on the grass, sleeping off the effects of St Patrick’s day. 
I think about going back to sleep, in the wrong bed. 

Power Connections in Putin’s Alaska

Alaska. A crater formed by mountains. A tall blond woman wakes up alone. The mountains are red, the sun has set. It is 3pm. She finds some steps down into the mountains. A diorama of the valley. A red pin marks her location. Downstairs. A cowboy bar. Drunk men collapsed. She walks outside. A small, black guy in a suit greets her. He looks like he’s waiting for a date. He does this often. This is the first time any woman has turned up. He shows her around the underground base, introducing her to people as his date. They laugh until they see her. She likes his humour and optimism, the fact he is right, and she loves seeing how pissed off people’s faces are when they see she’s real. 
I’m under a bridge with international officials. We are trying to get the European train moving. I ask Putin about rebel groups in the Ukraine. We agree that stability is best for everyone. I climb on board the train, splicing power lines together, improvising connections. The train begins to move. A friend is concerned about my wiring skills. He goes to check the connections. 

The Enemy Who Drives

I’m in a remote housing estate, in the foothills of Dartmoor. Anarchist poets are causing trouble. They have a PA system, and are shouting obscene rhymes about local dignitaries. The locals aren’t happy. I see a crowd with iron bars approaching. I decide to leave. I walk to Ide, looking for a bus. I stop to buy cakes for the journey. At the bus stop, a Jali with a kora asks me if it is legal for him to play his harp and busk here. His face is disfigured on one side. I tell him that here he is free to do whatever he loves as an artist. 
A group of detectives enter. They approach me. They say I match a description of one of the anarchists they are looking for. One asks me if I have any poetry apps on my iPhone. Yes, I confirm. But slam poetry was never my thing. Too competitive. The detectives seem to be happy with this answer, or have a poor description of me. They leave. I leave shortly after, aware of the limitations of walking against an enemy who drives. 

The Sacred Text of Dadaism

Thailand. I’m feeding a stray cat. I pay for a tin of tuna in Baht. An old woman feeds animals in the street. 
A rare Dadaist text. It is written on tiles on the wall of a flooded sewer. A French woman is told the text is so important, so rife with meaning, even in the font choice and spaces between words, that she drowns in search of it. She swims through clear toilet water, blue tiles beneath her. Through a flooded bathroom and children’s bedroom. She hears children through the walls. Down into a dark sewer, where her breath finally fails, as she glimpses the sacred tile text, her drowned body swept away like a stool, into a cavernous darkness. 
I visit a family. The boy is troubled. I pray for him. I leave holy water and sacred catholic charms to protect him. I ask his parents if they have ampules to store the holy water on leather straps around his neck. The mother is called away next door. It is a cold night. I talk to the father about exorcism. I have a kit, and know a former priest who can help. We go to see the boy. He is missing from his room. We find him in his mattress in a wooden garage. His hair is grey, his clothing covered in frost. He describes being visited by a boy, a devil, a demon, who ‘floated very carefully’. I tell him that he has been very brave. It’s raining outside. I receive a message on my phone. A secret society have kicked me out, after I shared a story in public about a woman drowning in search of a sacred Dadaist text, written on tiles, in a dark, deep sewer.