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imomusIn almost a year of entries in Click Opera, I don't think I've ever mentioned or transcribed a dream. So here's one I just had.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a headache, the kind that happens to me if I don't eat well enough and my blind right eye loses pressure. So I eat some food, take three aspirin and go back to sleep. I dream I'm at a big nightclub with some London friends from the early 90s, the people I used to have 'Twin Peaks' parties with. One of them is Douglas Benford, who now runs the Sprawl Club. We're in a rather chintzy nightclub full of different rooms, all open plan and on different levels. I'm standing between two of these rooms when security staff tell me I have to make up my mind, and stand in one or the other. This annoys me and I decide to leave. In a long corridor a bit like the one at the ICA I'm walking with Douglas, and it seems he needs to crash at my apartment, which is closer than his. Next thing you know we're in the same bed. Douglas is talking about a female artist who'd been at the club with us, and who might resemble Georgina Starr in some way. 'Ah, you're in love with Georgina!' I exclaim. 'I suppose I am,' says Douglas. 'In fact, I'm surprised you aren't as well.' I tell him the idea has never occurred to me. I like her, but not in that way.
Still in the dream, I wake up in the same apartment and it's the next day. I'm with Shizu and Karin and a bunch of mostly Japanese friends I knew in the late 90s. There's some sort of reality TV show going on, which rather surreally involves us driving around on a big tabletop in little blue open-topped dodgem cars. Some of the collisions are violent, and the drivers are bleeding. Shizu is mopping up nosebleeds with loo paper. I know that the car causing the most violent collisions is being driven by a robot ghost character, so I arrange for a huge crash in which the robot ghost car is completely destroyed and thrown off the tabletop. It lands upside down and scrunched up in a pile of bloody tissues on the floor. Several players round on me and accuse me of murder, but I protest my innocence. 'Go and check the wreckage, you'll find no body!' I tell them. With some trepidation and horror this is done, and indeed there's no body there. The robot ghost has evaporated into thin air. I am vindicated.
Next we're all on the balcony of a Tokyo apartment overlooking a university campus that's a cross between the village in 'The Prisoner' and some scene from the Monkees film 'Head'. It has the feel of a very pleasant yet paranoid 1960s film set, in other words, where nothing is real and everybody might be an agent or an actor. We're sipping cocktails and the evening sun is golden and warm. Down below there are lots of people standing around selling things. The actor-agents are playing the role of students in a campus theme park. There's a projection onto a mid-air plasma screen of a line of Asian adventurer-mercenaries, strong handsome bearded men in bearskins. It's a roll-call, and they're checking to see if they're all present. This is related to the robot-ghost. If everyone's present, then I definitely haven't killed anyone. The roll-call ends and a trumpet clarion sounds to indicate that nobody is missing. I catch the eye of a woman down below who looks like a taller version of my first girlfriend, Helen Hintjens. Shizu and Karin move inside because it's getting too hot out on the balcony. I decide to move inside too, but before I go I witness two emissaries being dispatched to a remote province with the good news that nobody has been killed. They both wear silver armour, buskins, and uniform with black trimming. One of them has a ludicrous and somewhat fascist-looking helmet that incorporates a large flying crow.
Inside I pass the sprawled, cooling girls and go into the bedroom where I'm staying. I'm carrying a small gadget I have to put away, but it occurs to me that this isn't my apartment and that I'm just a guest here, so I should put the gadget into my suitcase or one of my bags, which are dotted around the room between pieces of furniture. Otherwise I'll forget it when I leave the apartment and move on to the next place.
At that point I wake up. My headache has gone, but I'm pretty hungry. It's six am. I walk through my apartment, which is lit by floor-level fluorescent lights, and make a cup of yogi chai in the kitchen.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a headache, the kind that happens to me if I don't eat well enough and my blind right eye loses pressure. So I eat some food, take three aspirin and go back to sleep. I dream I'm at a big nightclub with some London friends from the early 90s, the people I used to have 'Twin Peaks' parties with. One of them is Douglas Benford, who now runs the Sprawl Club. We're in a rather chintzy nightclub full of different rooms, all open plan and on different levels. I'm standing between two of these rooms when security staff tell me I have to make up my mind, and stand in one or the other. This annoys me and I decide to leave. In a long corridor a bit like the one at the ICA I'm walking with Douglas, and it seems he needs to crash at my apartment, which is closer than his. Next thing you know we're in the same bed. Douglas is talking about a female artist who'd been at the club with us, and who might resemble Georgina Starr in some way. 'Ah, you're in love with Georgina!' I exclaim. 'I suppose I am,' says Douglas. 'In fact, I'm surprised you aren't as well.' I tell him the idea has never occurred to me. I like her, but not in that way.
Still in the dream, I wake up in the same apartment and it's the next day. I'm with Shizu and Karin and a bunch of mostly Japanese friends I knew in the late 90s. There's some sort of reality TV show going on, which rather surreally involves us driving around on a big tabletop in little blue open-topped dodgem cars. Some of the collisions are violent, and the drivers are bleeding. Shizu is mopping up nosebleeds with loo paper. I know that the car causing the most violent collisions is being driven by a robot ghost character, so I arrange for a huge crash in which the robot ghost car is completely destroyed and thrown off the tabletop. It lands upside down and scrunched up in a pile of bloody tissues on the floor. Several players round on me and accuse me of murder, but I protest my innocence. 'Go and check the wreckage, you'll find no body!' I tell them. With some trepidation and horror this is done, and indeed there's no body there. The robot ghost has evaporated into thin air. I am vindicated.
Next we're all on the balcony of a Tokyo apartment overlooking a university campus that's a cross between the village in 'The Prisoner' and some scene from the Monkees film 'Head'. It has the feel of a very pleasant yet paranoid 1960s film set, in other words, where nothing is real and everybody might be an agent or an actor. We're sipping cocktails and the evening sun is golden and warm. Down below there are lots of people standing around selling things. The actor-agents are playing the role of students in a campus theme park. There's a projection onto a mid-air plasma screen of a line of Asian adventurer-mercenaries, strong handsome bearded men in bearskins. It's a roll-call, and they're checking to see if they're all present. This is related to the robot-ghost. If everyone's present, then I definitely haven't killed anyone. The roll-call ends and a trumpet clarion sounds to indicate that nobody is missing. I catch the eye of a woman down below who looks like a taller version of my first girlfriend, Helen Hintjens. Shizu and Karin move inside because it's getting too hot out on the balcony. I decide to move inside too, but before I go I witness two emissaries being dispatched to a remote province with the good news that nobody has been killed. They both wear silver armour, buskins, and uniform with black trimming. One of them has a ludicrous and somewhat fascist-looking helmet that incorporates a large flying crow.
Inside I pass the sprawled, cooling girls and go into the bedroom where I'm staying. I'm carrying a small gadget I have to put away, but it occurs to me that this isn't my apartment and that I'm just a guest here, so I should put the gadget into my suitcase or one of my bags, which are dotted around the room between pieces of furniture. Otherwise I'll forget it when I leave the apartment and move on to the next place.
At that point I wake up. My headache has gone, but I'm pretty hungry. It's six am. I walk through my apartment, which is lit by floor-level fluorescent lights, and make a cup of yogi chai in the kitchen.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-20 10:07 am (UTC)I once was physically threatened by a very nerdy computer engineer at a venue I was DJing. The music I was playing at this event was all old-time, early blues and similar. The music that those there would hold to be authentic according to the official canon of folkism and I'm a regular at Cecil Sharpe House (http://www.efdss.org/) and know this argument of authenticity well enough avec barbe. Of course, I enjoyed the wind-up of playing scratchy old recordings on a laptop. I go to the bar, "Why are you using that?" I mention that it makes life easier, no boxes to lug around, I can carry more music with me. "No" he says "Why are you using that?" "Err?" "The Mac?" I then get a lengthy lecture about various forms of audio encoding and his disgust at the Mac OS. Well, it's easy to use and it hardly ever crashes on me, I say. Easy to use seems to be the issue that sparks him off and he starts jabbing my chest with his finger as he goes "Listen, it's people like you that deserve to be using those pieces of crap." "I don't suppose you're a Linux user are you?" "Well..." he nods, calming a little. "Do you actually like the music I'm playing?" Nods again. "So what is your problem?" Nick, I'm not sure about PCs being the rockist computer, I'm sure Linux, and open source and even Apple to some extent, are far more to do with the authentic in a rockist sense. As little M'soft as possible please on the hard drive, please. I built this here computer myself from two old Acorns and a door bell.
Okay, so that irrelevance maybe belongs to yesterday's post, but I'm thinking about all this on my return home and when I sleep, I dream that I'm in Taliban Afghanistan and I'm on my way to the football stadium to watch some public execution. I stop off to buy some almonds from a market stall and fall into conversation with the owner who insists that I take his daughters with him, who turn out to be Lena and Yulia from Tatu. The executions warm up with one of those Madame Mao/North Korean choreographed sign-flipping and ribbon-waving extravaganzas and I'm growing increasingly uncomfortable as I realise that the two girls are still dressed in those schoolgirl outfits. We must be breaking some law. A toothless man behind us fiddles beneath his cloak and points at me. I tell the girls it's time to leave and I lead them by the hand out of the stadium, except we become lost in a maze of ever-contracting tunnels, until I'm alone in an Alice-size compartment and moaning their disappearance as I hear the raised voices of approaching guards.
The point at which Tatu demanded to be taking seriously as singers was the point at which they lost it. It was going so well, girls, but then you had to think about it. I'm not sure I've enjoyed any band in the last ten years as much I enjoyed Tatu. I find myself coming to them again and again... Did I really just say that?!
Old Banjos
Date: 2004-11-20 07:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-11-24 08:32 pm (UTC)