Night of 3rd October 2010

My father has lent me his Porsche 964 RS. It's mine for the time being, and Nana is in it with me. We hit a stretch of motorway and I let it out—I revel, briefly, in the speed and power of the car; but I lose control at the first turn: a long right hand curve. The steering is too heavy, the speed too much, and I can't track the curve. We go into the left hand hand verge and barrier, scraping the car and hitting rough uncontrollable terrain. I'm not, however, panicked.

The car grinds to a halt, it's written off.

We exit. There's no starting the car again (and getting it back), so I have to leave it thereabouts. I try to push it to a nearby space in a backstreet (we are suddenly near an urban area: Tokyo).

Sometime later, I have to return the car—but must fix everything up so as to appear nothing had happened. I'm searching for someone I know who can fix this up for me. As we're in Tokyo, I hit upon an old acquaintance, a guy, about my age, called "Gema" (real name Kawashima) who began running his own clothing store in waking life back in Tokyo. He was also an ex-roommate of one of my old roommates: Araki.

I find them nearby and ask if they can fix the Porsche up. They say they can, and at the time I'm assured that this will do (though, in waking life, they never really struck me as professional, or right men for the job). I now have to retrieve the car so they can repair it.

I can't find it.

I vaguely remember where I left it—but not really. The dream becomes a quest to remember where I left the car.

I'm searching the area; I'm always close, but never quite the right place.

I'm back in the house I grew up in, I know the car was on the left hand side, and am looking for it on this side of the house, only to recall I can go no further left of the hall than one room, the dining room—and the car is certainly not in there. I realize it can't be here.

I'm next in an apartment, perhaps mine (but not one from waking life), and my older sister, Nina, turns up with her children. The children are wearing boots and are asking me questions, as is Nina, but I hide the truth of my blunder with Dad's car from them. I must go and find it. Time is tight.

I trace back my steps mentally, and recall where the car might have been left. I'm distressed now as it has been quite a time since I left it, and it's sure to have been stolen, tampered with, or vandalized. I've been blase about the whole incident, and the gravity begins to weigh on me.

I'm trying to make my way back, and find myself at a raised patio with several entrances (leading down). These entrances are not public, and not being a member of the private buildings they service, I'm stuck as to how I'll get where I need to go.

I have to risk it and break the law.

I choose one entrance and make my way in (probably behind someone else who had business going in there). I'm in, but want to get out the lower exit I'm searching for as soon as possible—to avoid detection and capture.

I'm down on a lower level, sea or lake level; I'm close to getting out. I see a kind of dock or harbour, or man-made coast behind the long glass walls and am moving along the long length of the bay trying to find the way out. The raised ground I came from is sensed above me to the right, I think there's a mountain, trees, etc. Not a European scene, but a Japanese one.

Some guards have noticed me. They give chase and I'm captured. I'm questioned thoroughly, and spill the Porsche story. I don't think they believe me; and yet somehow I'm out the other side.

I've remembered the location of the car—recalling the motorway was the key; I was searching the urban backstreets, to no avail. I go and get it. It's still broken, but I have it.

I wake

Night of 1st October 2010

The restaurant/cafe's in a concrete and brick complex of buildings. It's outside, the weather might be good. It feels like an LA cafe. There's a sense of space, openness (like you get in the US).

I'm scaling along the outside of some walls, standing on pipes and brick ledges. The pipes are not drainpipe thin, but more like industrial piping—quite wide, and strong: easy to stand on. My dinner partners are looking on, I'm trying to impress them with my daring route/skill.

I negotiate the last bits of pipe and ledge, drop down by our table - a square table, there are three other guests - and expect some applause or adulation. The others are not as impressed as I thought they'd be. Granted I wasn't that high up - perhaps a little higher than my height - but I tell them that I was just demonstrating; usually I'm much higher up. They remain unimpressed.

I wake.

Night of 27th September 2010

I recall that we'd driven a long way. To a church, to see a ceremony. Though I'm sure we came in my car, my recollection is of being driven by my mother in a mercedes (a modern one). It, like my car, was an automatic—though it had a gear stick with four positions (in a "H" arrangement). The gear positions did not read 1,2,3,4, etc. The two right positions (from my vantage point in the passenger seat) may have read S,D... And the two left I'm not sure. On second look, all I see is three buttons "T,D,S" like on my car. Not much about it makes sense.

My mum is negotiating tight traffic and it appears as though we're winding our way through a side street in Altringham, near the McDonalds, across the way from the bus station.

I've offered to drive (I never did in my waking youth) as I'm a confident driver now and my mum stopped driving a long time ago (in waking life) after a small accident. She says she's OK.

There's a problem with my car. I don't know what it is but a heart shaped indicator is flashing (red) on the dashboard. Though I don't know what this means exactly (I have to check the handbook) I'm sure it's a serious fault.

My father has parked the car near home as it couldn't get all the way there. I go out to get it, look at it. I find it at the top of the hill (a large raised area) in my home-town, near the Shell garage. My father has packed the car away into a box (as he always does) and I have to reconstruct it. This annoys me slightly (I never pack my car away like this).

[N.b., this "packing away" is dream logic, not a comment on waking life]

My car's now parked, roughly, outside a house in construction or renovation or destruction. As I near the car, I sense another car crawling along behind—perhaps the owner of this property, come back. From a distance my car was my car, but as I get closer it has changed into a vintage mercedes, a different car at any rate. I think the colour is grey-blue. The owner has come past me and is trying to park his car. Mine is in the way. Before I know it, the other guy's car is parked and my car is sitting above it, crushing it. The owner is obviously angry and wants my car out of the way; though paradoxically he seems to completely ignore the presence of my car (hence wedging his underneath it) and my efforts to move it.

By the end I'm lifting my car by the front bumper and lifting up and off the other car, and out of the way. Like some kind of strongman event.

I wake.

Night of 31st August 2010

It's a high school setting. A big school. I'm A-level age or thereabouts, and it's the run up to exams or a big assembly. I'm behind the scenes, there are a few teachers and my sister's business partner Nick (a real person from waking life).

Nick is an impresario (as he is in reality) and I'm aching to get in on his art. I sense this is why I'm behind the scenes—I'm trying to get a foot in the door. Nick's preparing some kind of art piece or exhibition, and this is what the whole school will be assembled to see. I'm hanging on, hanging around, trying to get my shot.

Nick tells me, OK it's your chance now. I'm going to be a part of the art, or get to do the art. This is my shot. Nick gestures to a wet square of concrete that he was preparing. It's angled slightly upward, in front of a window. I have to fall, face first, into the wet concrete and leave my impression. This will be the art. I'm very hesitant; not sure whether this is the right thing to do—whether it will work. I wake.

Night of 27th August 2010

I've organized the Wu-Tang re-union. It's not a concert or performance, more like a fan-meet—and I've put it together.

We're in a small, unimpressive, room; I'm standing behind the RZA, now a man with thinning hair and sagging features, who is sitting down at a desk facing the wall. The other members are to RZA's right, I stand behind him on his left.

I'm wearing jogging bottoms and sweatshirt—both soft cotton. The pants are black, and the top a washed out yellow; but still, the Wu Tang colors.

RZA has some kind of sticker on him - like a "hello my name is" sticker - just a plain white rectangle, onto which he writes something. Coveting this RZA sticker, I, or he, peels it off and slaps it on my chest. But, as always happens with these stickers, the adhesive side, once used, is covered in tiny fibres and has lost much of its sticking powers. It doesn't stick very well to my sweatshirt.

I'm in the English school (for instructing non-natives in the langauge—not a proper school). I'm a newbie again; my first class will be a meeting with the head-instructor: Heidi (the real head-instructor from the language school I once worked in). I'm waiting in the teachers room with another, and seem to be unprepared or recovering from a heavy night out—I'm, in some way, winging it. But glancing at the schedule and seeing Heidi's name in my first lesson hour snaps me out of it, and I'm rushing to prepare and look ready.

There is an interlude and I'm looking back at a magazine shoot I once did (I did model for Japanese magazines a long time ago, though the pictures I'm looking at are not a shoot that happened in waking life). I'm running with a girl on the beach, or at the seaside, we're both young—she seems to be, a then, up and coming b-actress or c-idol. I'd always thought I was super-good in these shoots, but looking back at the pages now, I see I wasn't good: I was uncomfortable, and wooden. I notice my silhouette particularly (the shots were backlighted, and light rays come through the fabric of the clothes—showing an outline of the body beneath), it's very effeminate - wide hips, gaunt shoulders - it's almost the same shape as the female model's.

It's lesson time. Looking at the schedule again, it's no longer Heidi I must see; another name has replaced hers. I don't know him, but he must be senior—presumably more important than Heidi. Scrabbling for books and material - to look more professional and prepared - as I walk out, the other person is talking to me, though I remember nothing of his words.

I walk out into the instruction area—it's open plan (not like the language school was in real life). I see a bearded man, skinny, a little scruffy, sitting behind a plastic topped desk—this is the man I must meet with.

I go to sit, and find the seat is tiny, for a toddler, my eyeline barely lines up with the desktop. Laughing I go to swap my chair, for the one next to it. Switching them, I get a good look at the chair I just sat in. It was tiny; it had a brown fabric seat, and stood on thin steel-piped legs; the seat was laid back and angled slightly upward, there were no arms or rests—it was open. And it was tiny: barely the width of one of my thighs.

The seat next to it was more adult size. It looked old, second hand, ragged. Rushing to get sat down and begin, I pulled it hastily and sat down without thinking. The seat was brown again, this time, wood or faux-leather, not especially soft looking. And it had high arm rests, like a wall, all around the seat—like a spinning tea-cup you see at fairgrounds.

After sitting down I notice my suit is fouled a little. I'd worn my best grey suit - a Saville Row suit - to impress the Boss. The seat had been covered in a caramel colored sticky substance; now all over my best suit. As the interview is proceeding, my left fingers are quietly inspecting the gunk and trying to ascertain what it is. I quickly realize it's all over the chair. I hadn't checked for anything like this before sitting—I didn't want to hold up the Boss, or make a worse first impression than already made. I have to break eye-contact and look at the sticky crap all over my suit. I see a patch of the yellowy substance on on the left jacket pocket, notice it elsewhere on my pants, etc. And am thoroughly depressed by it. I wake.

Snippets of recent dreaming

1) Porsche up the hill.

I'm driving with my father. We're going up a forest hill; the forest is is damp, green, earthy—a northern place, european. The car's a Porsche Targa. I think I drive.

There's a problem as we near the top. We stop and get out, lift the bonnet and see the engine wasn't bolted on to the chassis: it's slipped off its moorings.

(in waking life, my father phoned me the next morning to ask if I wanted to go with him to a classic car meet; he's a member of the Porsche club)

2) Canoes in the cove.

It's me and another. We're inland, at some kind of shore—it's either a lake shore, or a secluded bay. It's not tropical, quite cool and brisk; like an Alaskan setting.

There's some kind of zombie outbreak, or other calamity that means we have to avoid other people at all costs. You see someone, you run, kind of thing. Paradoxically though, we aren't panicked and don't go haywire when we see some others at the shore (there's a sense we all used to be together). We just slip quietly into the waters and look for the boats/canoes and oars/paddles (there's also a sense that these boats and oars were the other group's).

My partner is in and away. I'm quietly wading in, the water is quite cold so I've got a good deal of clothes on, a bubble jacket the outermost layer. I find my rowboat and manage to board it; in doing so, however, some water has gotten in. I've also lost an oar.

I'm lying prone in the rowboat, so as not to alert the others on shore, and let it glide out a bit. I bump into a rock formation and end up behind it—it's safe to sit up and locate the missing oar. I look through the clear water, see the pebbles and sub-aqua base of the rock I'm hiding behind. The oar is nearby, I make my way over and take it; only to find the oar is tiny. I see another, another two in fact, inside a boat house, leant up against the wall; I take one. It's huge.

(the oars also seem to miraculously change design, the paddle face now has three wide open angular vents in it, it looks as though it wouldn't be much good for propulsion...)

I'm then in someone's house. I've been staying over, or came back here after the trip. I'm still wearing the same clothes as the previous episode. It seems as though we're all in the living room watching my previous exploits on the TV. The house is a grand old victorian one—just like the house I grew up in; but not the same. This one feels more imposing and like an "away" venue for me.

The others, children, are a little wary of me and play nice. A girl compliments my jacket (this bubble jacket is the same shade of olive as the North Face bubble jacket I had a very long time ago in University). The children's parents come in, and are also a little surprised I'm still there, and also a little wary of me—they seem very careful, they try to delicately "handle" me.

After some more time passes, my parents turn up—to pick me up. It's 2 a.m.: I've kept the family up all this time (almost like I was holding them hostage), and this was perhaps the reason everyone was so wary and a little freaked out. I had no idea it had gotten so late, and say "I only thought it was 8p.m., 10 at the latest." I wake.

Night of 18th July 2010

I'm in a rural setting, like the Pennines. And like northern Pennine weather, the sky is both light and darkly overcast - a storm is about to hit.

I'm siting on a hillock, surveying the vista, in particular the hill to my right. Nana and Vivi are safe underground, and I will join them, but I have to wait for something up here. Until the last possible moment. The storm is going to be a heavy one, but I reassure them that I will be OK - I must be outside, though for quite what reason, I don't know.

The wind picks up, lighting begins striking in the distance - the storm is stronger than I'd planned for. But I continue to wait. There's a sense that everyone else has fled, the storm is reaching disaster strength. I begin to worry.

I'm watching the hill to my right, a huge lightning bolt hits the hill. It hits again, and rather than being a flash of contact, the lightning bolt is a continuous lash of power. It draws a three sided shape on the hill face, not regular, more like the scribble of an infant. The ferocity and proximity of the lightning is terrifying, I know I must flee now. I wake.

Night of 17th July 2010

I'm reversing the car in the grassy car-park (identical to the one at Bodiam, which I visited in waking life, earlier in the day). I'm not the best at reversing, especially with a turn, as here, so am amazed I pull it off without hitting another's parked vehicle. My car's turning circle shouldn't be so tight, shouldn't allow me to get out in one—but I do. It's not through my skill, I feel overwhelmed and not in control, basically winging it. The car has miraculously made it possible.

Outside the rectangular room, Barack Obama is jubilant. This is his moment of taking office, the first time an African-American has done this in history. I'm right next to him, slightly in front, and unwittingly step into the room first. I instantly realize my faux-par, an especially big one considering it wasn't only his first step in that I ruined, but the first step in of its kind ever in history that I ruined. I quickly turn to Obama, and see he is still joyous and exchanging euphoria with the applauding entourage of staff—he's so joyous, he is crying. Unaware that I'd stepped in the room before he could.

Next I see his wife Michelle at the door. There is a sense that her daughter has just graduated from university, and she is proud and joyous too. Also tearful. I lean over and cup her right cheek with my right hand, and kiss her left cheek.

I wake.

Recent Fragments...

[No complete narratives remain in waking memory the last few days; however, here are some images and passages that have survived into consciousness.]

- The Rocky Ascent

I'm climbing an increasingly steep, rocky hill/mountain face—like a crag. The crag seems to be mediterranean or near-eastern. Somehow religious. I'm not sure how I know this, but the light, the rocks themselves, and the sprigs of green bushes growing in the rocks introduce them as such.

I make this climb daily, or repeatedly. As I'm nearly all the way up, this sense of repetition hits me—I've done this before. Along with the repetition, a sense of danger also kicks in. I have no ropes or harnesses to save me if I fall (make a mistake, lose grip); and this pressure makes the climb suddenly more difficult. My grip feels less assured, bits of twig and branch I cling onto seem less safe, I feel the ground, far below, sucking me in. But I'm nearly there.

I muddle through the last few feet. There is a midriff height steel barrier at the top of the crag, I know it will be easy to get over that, so the main point is getting as far as it. I see a young sapling or shoot growing out of the rock and go to grip it. Older branches can be brittle and weak, and I'm sure the young shoot will be rubbery, tough, and supple—though hard to grip, slippy and small. I grab it and some other purchase points too, it's a ragged ascent: bits of rock and branch break away, but I'd managed to get hold of something else before they went; foot holds slip, and hand holds are precarious—but I muddle through, and up to the top.

Vaulting over the metal barrier, I'm standing around the corner from the house I grew up in. The spot where I stand was a bridge over a canal/waterway, also the apex of a hill. There were (are) old victorian mansions all around, and great old trees.

- Stevie Wonder: I Just Called/The Weather...

Two nights on the run, this theme has somehow worked itself in to the dreams (which themselves, I can't recall). I'm searching for an emotive Stevie Wonder song - the lyrics, and Stevie's voice, are all important, and that's why I'm looking it up - and am sure it begins "The Weather" or "The red sky..." I'm sifting through an i-Tunes style list of music for it. The tune is playing in my mind as a song called "The Weather" or "The Red Sky," but I can't find it; yet the melody is so famous it frustrates me that I can't put my finger on it. Sooner or later I realize it's the tune of "I Just Called to Say I Love You" and the opening lyric I'm thinking of is "No...., No...." etc. But this, too, doesn't seem right. It was the tune of "I Just Called..." and something about a red sky or sunset—something weather related.

Night of 8th July 2010

It's a big night out. Mr. Nozawa's treat (the Director of the company I used to work for). As always, our party is large and we file into a restaurant that seems to have been reserved for us. Though we are jocular, there's a special tension in the air—it's not because we've never been to this restaurant before, it's because tonight we'll see underground martial arts fighting.

There are many Yakuza about, and we're careful not to antagonize them. Following the rules carefully. The fighters parade in. As they do, the high-strung tension releases into some kind of excited expectation, people begin to lighten up and look forward to the show ahead.

The fights are underway and we are eating as we watch. Mr. Nozawa and the rest are behind me, and being the outermost member of the group I'm still careful to watch my manners around the dangerous criminal types who populate the restaurant.

A headlining fighter's fight has come up; but it's announced that he isn't available and won't fight. There's a sense that someone from the audience has to fill in for him. I shrink in my seat hoping it won't be me that gets picked. I get picked, and find myself suited up for fighting, waiting in the line, and trying to put a capable face on it. Ahead of me two Japanese men, enforcer types with short legs and powerful 'upside down triangle' upper bodies, are grappling away in their bout. They are actually quite mild with each other, and the win isn't secured by crunching violence, dead meat slaps of foot bones into faces, ashen white shock and crimson blood; no, they are both on their feet, and the whole thing was more like a judo match. It was won quite non-violently. I'm heartened.

It's the next bout, not mine, and I sense the most important, or awaited. I've been awaiting it too, to see one of the fighters—an enigma.

He's carried in on a wooden board, doubled up and unconscious. It's made known that he was suffering a terrible cold or virus, and was in no shape to fight, but has come out anyway. I sense it wasn't entirely his decision to come out (he's unconscious). But he is still impressive, awesome. There's an aura about him. It could be that he's still only a high-school student but fights in these bloody martial arts matches; or the corollary that he must be crazy. At any rate, I'm, we' re all, filled with awe. A collective gasp runs through the audience as he is stretchered in.

I marvel at his body, curled up into a fetal ball, and the huge tattoo on his back. It's a yakuza style tattoo - some kind of Japanese folk character drawn in traditional style - but what grabs my attention is that eyes of the demon or man depicted are shut or empty. No colouring in the eyes—they are just flesh colour (the colour of the fighter's yellow skin, I suppose he's Japanese). Like looking at an unfinished tattoo, where outlines are not yet filled in. Anyway, I sense that his unconscious condition and the empty/closed eyes on his back are connected—that the eyes in the tattoo are the source of his power. When they are on, he is on. Unbeatable.

I never see his face, but his hair is dyed bright white/blonde. All in all, a very wild character.

The fighting tournament is finished and I'm outside in the night, with an old co-worker Hirose (a real co-worker from my old work, and not only that, a once good friend, we no longer keep in touch. He was fired by my old Boss). I'm glad to see him again.

I sense we are in Japan, perhaps Tokyo, and though I'd lived there for a decade, I feel like a visitor or inductee (in waking life I've moved back to the U.K., and intend to stay). We're outside the restaurant, and the rest of the group know where to go next (the next clandestine activity of the night), but I don't. I'm not included. It's either because of my rank; or I have just not understood, but either way, I have no idea, and am left behind. As is Hirose.

We dance about the subject for a while, but eventually I offer him a lift in my car. I have the car and can drive, he knows the roads and can guide me. He's been waiting for this offer, and accepts.

We make our way to the car park where my car is. I notice it parked up, and it is exactly the same car that I own in waking life, hence I recognized it perhaps. This being Japan, I'm not exactly sure what to do, and follow Hirose's lead for getting the car. As we're approaching I look to my right, trying to pick out which of the tracks leading out of the car park is the exit. I go past one track, is that?, no, there's another track with an arrow pointing out along it—that's the exit. I plot the simple line I'm going to cruise around to it and out as my eyes track back to the car.

Now I know where the exit is and what I'm doing, all that remains is to get into the car. But we can't just walk up and get in. I follow Hirose, and it seems we're separated from the car in some way and need to get through a door to get to the car's side.

We're outside a door lit in the blue/green tungsten light I remember well from older Japanese apartment complexes. The door is dirty and dusty, like a fire-escape or utility entrance. We're cramped up close to the door and behind us/over us is a concrete incline—just like a flight of stairs were above us, and we were stood underneath it. I'm behind Hirose; Hirose is in front of the door. It needs a key, and Hirose has to turn around and reach past me to pick up some kind of communal key that was attached to the incline behind/over us. I feel like I'm in the way. Hirose pulls the key out, but it does not detach; rather it stays connected to its holder, but telescopes out on flat metal panes. Hirose gets the key in the door and opens it.

I wake.

Night of 7th July 2010

It feels like the village I grew up in, though the scenery is all different. There is though the same sense of middle-class and upper middle-class about the place. We're all in high school.

The house I grew up in is somehow not mine anymore (indeed, it has been sold on in waking life), and is currently undergoing updating, renovation, remodeling.

There's some kind of party, in my house I think, and I'm running through it—I'm the "it" person because of my fashionable dress. I've managed to wear the things that everyone else wanted but couldn't get their hands on. I got mine in a department store style setting; but I shoplifted all the items. It was more cheeky luck than premeditated theft: I'd been trying on items, and found the store deserted upon emerging from the changing rooms. I stole away from the shop without the black owner ever noticing. The shirt, the item most people at the party are impressed by, still has a price tag on it. It has pronounced tails, and is patterned with large diamond shapes. The colouring is gaudy, like some awful hip-hop fashion brand. Getting to my house, I see some new gleaming shutters or thin corrugated panels on the side of the house—like blinds twisted shut. The appendage is huge, covering a good sized portion of the leading wall. It's purple or green: garish, and set on an incline. I run up the incline and skate back down it on the soles of my sneakers.

A girl, perhaps a girlfriend, is with me inside the party, in my room. She's also impressed with my clothes. More people crowd around and are ogling the clothes on my back; perhaps reaching out and grabbing them. I begin to run again (not in fear, it's like kiss-chase almost).

I'm at the canal, and jump in—I sense this my training. I'm unfit and running and swimming are part of my regimen to get fit and prepared for the upcoming event (I don't know what it is). I'm a bit wheezy (I smoke in waking life), and am not quite up to par. No one is chasing me anymore, but the girl is still there. However she is not as smitten as before. I think I go back to the house once more, and now it is certainly not mine anymore.

It's university. I'm staying in a bedsit, a dive of a place—it's practically a squat. There's no sign of my housemates, the Spanish (my real housemates in waking life when I was a student), and I sense there hasn't been for some time. Though there are still signs of them having been there.

A rented video is in the main room, a small room, and it needs to be returned.

I'm getting ready to make a trip to the outside. The outside is more run-down than the squat; I sense it's a mildly dangerous place and it's generally better to avoid going unless you have to. There is rubble outside, it's like a bomb-site or post-war landscape.

Diego, my best Spanish friend, has come in through a window. I'm overjoyed to see him, but he acts like a stranger. I'm trying to make conversation but he barely acknowledges. Almost as soon as he's come in, he's out again. I too go out.

I'm walking past some rubble that I sense is my (our) university. There are some high chain-link fences; behind them I see students in rag-tag clothing standing about. There is some kind of musical performance or concert about to start/starting. I look again, and see an androgynous black person singing. Perhaps this person is the group.

I wake.

Night of 3rd July 2010

Nana and I are staying in a small hotel room. We must be on holiday. We have 4 children; the youngest of which is still a baby.

I'm in the shallow rectangular pool with the baby, it can't be our first born (who is a baby now in waking life) yet I refer to her as such. I'm holding her in my arms and trying to enjoy the pool with her; but, being a clumsy person, am quite stressed that I have to take responsibility for the baby in the pool (I know I'll make a mistake, so why me?). And I make a mistake.

I fall over to my left, and gravity stops me from being able to stop myself falling on the baby. My entire body weight is falling upon the baby. Its left leg is squeezed off at the knee by the impact. I'm horrified.

I quickly pick up the tiny amputated leg, it's still warm; and I sprint with the baby, and the leg, in my arms. I'm yelling at the hotel reception for an ambulance.

I wake

Night of 25th June 2010

It's like a Japanese TV gala event. The stars are all wearing garish, kitsch kimonos and glitzy dinner suits. We approach the event from outside, I notice three girls walking ahead of us. None of them are sexy; they look bandy and malnourished. As with Japanese TV now, most of the stars are comedians. I sense the girls in front were a trio.

It's still early and we weren't fashionably late. The gala is barely populated, and the desperate few who have already arrived wait about looking for something to cling to onto, to assuage the shame of being there before anyone else. As we walk in, I'm relieved to see a safe pair of hands, someone I can latch onto who has better than the rest (here) cool credentials. He appears to me as a handsome Japanese man, but at the same time as Simon Day, and I infer that he, too, is one member of a trio—"Neptunes," an off-kilter mainstream Japanese comedy act (once off-kilter, now thoroughly mainstream).

He's wearing a pink kimono set-up, very like New Year's dress, but pink rather than conservative black and grey. Though I know him, and he (appears to) knows me, I sense we are passing acquaintances, who only knew each other by name. Perhaps this is the first time we've actually met. Simon is waxing lyrical about some daifuku (Japanese sweets) that he's wolfing down in the waiting area. He says they are the best because they are old-school daifuku, traditional, not like the over-sweetened shit people love nowadays. The daifuku are also pink. He's very proud of the daifuku, and continues that they are the real thing, and he got them from Sainsbury's.

Simon is with his wife, who is not very attractive. There is another comedian with his wife, who is much more attractive, though colder, and I suspect some unspoken bond between the other wife and Simon. It's only a suspicion.

Though no drink has been obvious, Simon is getting drunk. The show is still a way from starting and we make our way about the place, looking for Simon's comedic partners. We're outside, away from the gala building, but not far, and I see what looks like a concrete tower block and a regular, if dingy, looking street. Simon heads off toward it, seeming to think that his friends, or someone he knows is there. I stay put, but am aware of Simon's progress by overhearing his loud words, and catching the occasional glimpse of him between parked cars, etc.

Simon hasn't found his partners, but has found someone he knows—and is very happy about it. He's happier because at last he's come across someone he actually knows rather than just passing acquaintances (me) or other showbiz cronies that have to be pandered to. He is very drunk so this relief/happiness is barely concealed—I hear him bellowing how great it is to see you, and God all those fucking people, etc. He's getting ever more animated and excited and that's when it happens.

Simon fell off the tower block.

The person he was with screams/shouts and at this instant I know something is seriously wrong (I didn't see the fall). Simon hits the ground. The person in the tower block jumps down after him; but their jump is controlled, they land on their feet. I rush toward the crash site.

Simon is still far away, but there are two people over him. He's staring past them into space—the sense is, he's on his way out. The closer I get, the more his two friends retreat. I'm quite shocked by this; it's like they want to palm him off on someone and wash their hands.

I get over Simon, there is a blanket over him, he's losing consciousness. The back of his head is smashed. I don't see the wound, but the back of his head is soggy, and blood is pooling under it. The others have fled. I'm not going to leave him.

I hold Simon's hand and put the thought of his wife and friends firmly in my head—almost as though just thinking of them would be the same as shouting for them, or calling the emergency services.

It seems to have worked. Simon's wife approaches from the darkness of the street with a few people in tow. She is less than distraught, takes an analytic look from distance and leaves Simon. I stay there, holding his hand, trying to keep him conscious, though he is no longer. Next the other wife skips in, she is distraught. Yes, Simon must have been having an affair with her—my suspicions were correct, the truth of them is revealed. But she too, only comes within a few steps of the smashed up Simon. She runs away. I can't believe no-one is stepping in to help me keep Simon going; just to comfort him in his last moments. But no, nothing.

I sense Simon has gone. His body is heavy and limp; his eyes closed; his chest lifeless. I roll him over slightly, a result of trying to rouse him. I see the wound: the back of his head is completely gone; a mess of pink tissue and yellow brain pokes out the wide open crevice in the back of his skull. Bits of head scattered about like chunks of watermelon dot the vicinity.

I wake.

Night of 13th June 2010

It begins with skateboarding. In the village where I grew up, at the curved stretch of pavement between the baker's and the florist bordered on both sides by water - the dam on one side, running water down below on the other - I see myself taking runs, from the florist toward the baker, at a stone bench (in real life there were two wooden benches at this spot that I really used to skate when I was a kid; the stone block is a real stone block that I skated as an adult in Tokyo). I'm not that good initially, I gave up skating over 4 years ago, I'm rusty; someone asks me why I've picked it up again. I say, faux heroically, sometimes you don't want to skate, then sometimes you watch an old H-street video...

At this point the image switches and I watch Phil Anselmo, the lead singer of Pantera, as a professional skater in an old 90s style skate video—in the footage, he is skating the exact same spot in the village. He is doing manuals on the stone bench and kick flipping out. As Phil was in his prime, he is physically powerful, wiry, and his skating reflects this—it's snappy, full-blooded, dynamic. But limited (these tricks are now normal).

I glance at the bench, it's still the same grey granite color and has the same uneven sides with a glassy marbled top (the top was great for skating); but there are three lines, columns, rows of bench now—one attached to the next, each higher than the previous, arranged like steps (though in some views it seems one step is barely any higher than the previous). The bench has stretched too, it's no longer the length of the Tokyo bench (enough room for two or three), it stretches almost the length of the florist's to the baker's.

I'm going back to set up for a run at the bench. I'm past the florist's, and my ex-colleague Matsuo (from waking life) is with me. He was an architecture graduate (but never practiced and wasn't particularly savvy) and I begin to complain about the architectural style of the bench to him. I complain about its tacky modern minimalism - like corporate building design - its ugly on economic purpose; and look about for a comparison. I see the store (what used to be Somerfield in the village) and it has huge windows like the palace at Versailles (not a feature of the real store). The windows aren't genuine works of art like the palace at Versailles, but modern imitations/interpretations—something the first modernists in the 20s or 30s might have done. Looking again they look like imitations of the imitations—I see the detail in the semi-circular tops of the window are just painted on the glass instead of being real lead or metal work. But still, at least an effort at some pretense of art has been made and I point it out to nodding Matsuo; Look at that, you see the difference, it's Neo-, Neo-?, Neo-Deco. Matsuo seems to understand what I'm driving at.

I'm making another run at the bench, but this time it isn't clear that it's me—I see the image in third person, and don't feel as connected as before. Me/the skater is exceptionally good, very very good—I/they can do anything. I carve a bench long back-smith, backside flip out, then begin doing a series of PJ Lad style flat tricks. Ollies are popping very high, and right at the end, by the baker's, I nollie a cone.

I'm thinking about how to email some wine. I see the wine in a cylindrical container and know this is the sample from the bottle; I want to send this. But can't quite figure out how to email it (the physical wine). I try an email and the wine is attached as a series of jpegs, perhaps 6, but I'm convinced something is not right. It troubles me.

It's the sequel to Twin Peaks, Anthony Hopkins stars as the special agent (perhaps Dale Cooper). This sequel is certainly a DTV thing, and the whole idea of a sequel and being DTV leaves me skeptical of the quality and sure it'll be a joke. But it's earnestly good in the way some DTV and sympathetic sequels or spin-offs can be.

I can't be sure of the order of events, but the following took place in the show:

1) Laura Palmer last moments sequence in animation. It was perhaps more like a bargain basement rotoscoping effect, but I saw this whole section as though it were a computer animation. Laura was slightly different - but recognizably Laura - her look seemed tuned for the Japanese audience—she looked like women do in Anime.

It must be the moments leading to her death, she is coming on to someone (falsely, it's just her job as a prostitute) and I see her framed, bust up, in a purple dress talking in a smokey voice. The words are lost on me in waking, but I'm sure she was taunting. Then she was bragging—that she'd had sex 15 times in one session, from one man (whether this was the killer, I can't recall).

She is then having sex, she's on the bottom, and I see the killer for the first time, from Laura's perspective below. Again, it's like an Anime shot, very stylized; the killer is a blond male with a strong jaw line and distant, mad blue eyes. His hair is short. He grins madly and cuts Laura on the left cheek. It may have just been with his sharp finger nail.

2) Dale Cooper in the car park. Dale meets up with the civil servant he knew from the first Twin Peaks (no such character in original real series). The civil servant is dirty and Dale knew it, perhaps Dale had found him out and sent him down in the conclusion to the first Twin Peaks. So now, Dale can trust him in a way—he knows what he is, and that he's been marked by it. The civil servant may in fact be the mayor.

He is pleading with Dale to get in his car and go with him somewhere: trust me, trust me, etc. Though Dale is untrusting, he eventually relents and agrees to drive to where the mayor wants him to go. They walk to Dale's car, get in, and at this moment two henchmen types get in Dale's car. The mayor steals out. It must have been revenge!

The mayor walks over to his large executive sedan, an american car, and gets in the driver's side. He starts the engine and slowly drives out of the car park.

3) Dale in his colleague's bedroom. Dale (Hopkins) is with his old Police buddy continuing the search. His old friend thinks it's a pointless, or damaging/dangerous, case and is trying to convince Dale there's nothing in it. But Dale is driven by something his buddy can't understand. Dale continues trying to crack the case.

He is carefully cutting some flowers and leaves from green ground. The flowers and leaves are tiny, and Dale is being very careful using specialist sowing clippers. The clippings are evidence and this is the reason Dale is taking them.

Suddenly, the meadow from which Dale was extracting little flowers and leaves is his buddy's bedroom duvet. His aged buddy and his buddy's wife are in bed, and Dale is on it, in their bedroom. Dale is still clipping the four leaved clover away from its stem very carefully, while the couple look on from the head of the bed. I'm impressed at the four leaved clover. The wife is initially cross that Dale is here doing work; but Dale charms her as he always has in his wounded single male way. She falls for it, as she always has, in her caring passive lover/mother way.

I see the wife's old grey face, her eyebrows in particular—they are very thin and have been trimmed/manicured. It's slightly alarming, but not sinister or scary. The woman's features, too, are thin—bird like or almost ratty, but dignified. Perhaps a little witch-like.

4) Dale in his apartment. My denim folder from my old work is half stuck through Dale's letterbox (from the inside), there's something above it, maybe an A4 yellow legal pad, also clamped in the jaws of the letterbox. Not clamped in the letterbox, but rested on the platform the denim folder and legal pad make, is a small object—perhaps a black case, like a ring case or cigarette case.

Dale's friend is with him in his apartment. He's again remonstrating with Dale. Dale hasn't noticed the black case, he walks past it several times. His buddy, however, does. He takes it, trying to pass it to Dale.

The wine is still playing on my mind. I see a sequence of 90s music and images. The last of which is three Sony televisions on a chrome stand with black plastic bits on it in the middle of a red desert. The tvs are arranged in vertical, spiraling order—like a DNA helix. The main chrome support is a straight bar, vertical but angled. Off it, short storks come out which hold a tv - the stork into the side of the tv - and the tvs are not directly above one another but staggered about the main bar. I see the arrangement, as though it were a shot in a 90s tv ad, from below: the lowest (nearest) tv is huge and the furthest tiny—there must be some kind of fish-eye or special perspective lens on the camera. It's very dramatic and self-important (c.f., it's an ad) at any rate.

I wake.

Night of 12th June 2010

It's an old world setting, the age of sail. There are two girls, perhaps I'm one of them, once aristocratic but now sold into some sort of slavery or servitude because they were found to be charades. They were found out with a false gift of iced buns: giving them to the man, he realized that it was a slight mistake of ceremony—real aristocrats give something similar, but not iced buns, and this faux par tripped his suspicion. He commandeers the women. In the final image, I'm plunged into the open ocean.

We three (men) are on a trip or quest, the setting is again historic—medieval. One of us is Viggo Mortensen, as Hidalgo. We're walking a dirt path through a wood or copse, the trees are not thick around us, rather there are slim trunked trees and grassy floors either side of us. It may be spring or autumn, the trees are not thickly leaved, but not barren either—many branches are thin and twig like.

Viggo has fallen. I see his felled body through a U-shaped break in the twigs: he is not on the dirt track, but on the wooded side, the setting is autumnal now—the twigs and woods is yellow and red. I step through the U-shaped break in the twigs/hedge/saplings. I have a sense of deja vu, Viggo has fallen like this before, however something is different this time—there is a cylindrical lump missing from Viggo's lower body as we check it: perhaps from the side of his rump or upper leg. This missing piece was important and without it we don't now what to do. The quest cannot continue.

I go back to Viggo's body and remove his sword and dagger. The dagger is very long, more the length of a gladius than a dagger; unlike a gladius though, the blade is curved—Eastern. The sword is also curved, almost a comic scimitar. On the sword's blade are three lines or lines of text—I do not know this text, but it is magical and holds the key to the quest. The other man declares that this, the text or what it intones, is a computer. I sense the power of the sword and text.

I wake.

Night of 4th June 2010

It starts very high in the sky. I'm tracking some fighter pilots—it seems a rookie is in training, he has a modern fighter, and his mission is to hunt two other bogies, flown by his experienced instructors. The bogies are MIGs: a black one and a white one. I see the black one bank away and I'm tracking the white one.

It's descending but the design is not a MIG; it looks quite space-age, in a 70s way—the way a Lotus Esprit looks space age in a 70s way. The MIG is doing barrel rolls as it descends, however the rolls of the plane are quite unique: sometimes the body rolls in its entirety (the pilot rolls with the body), an orthodox sight; other times only the wings and forward body roll—the pilot, the cockpit, does not roll. The wings and forward chassis rolling while the cockpit does not seems like a nut spinning round a bolt. The MIG bombs down through the air.

It passes a huge balloon - some kind of altitude marker - and the pilot has to eject. He is still the experienced, senior, instructor, and I sense he is exactly Tom Skerritt (the "Top Gun" instructor from the synonymous film). He's parachuted out and is falling down to the ocean. Skerritt plunges into the water and sinks deep down.

My perspective is now first person. As the waters darken and deepen, I see two divers waiting for me with outstretched arms. They take hold of me and fix some breathing equipment over my mouth—not diving equipment, but the medical muzzles hospitals use when administering gaseous anaesthetic. I'm pulled into the undersea base.

We're in what is my house though it's unknown to me, I guess it must be the new house that Nana and I are currently searching for in waking life. It's a smallish, few bedroomed family house. My parents are visiting.

All the pets are wreaking havoc. I think a small kitten has first caused some chaos, and I'm embarrassed as it leaves a bad impression. Soon a chimpanzee like monkey has appeared from upstairs. I didn't know we had a monkey, but as it appears I know its name and it is familiar to me. It begins to get out of control, and my parents have to step in and care for it—what should be my job as it's my pet. My parents are very understanding and don't criticize me for not being able to handle having a chimpanzee, even though I was the one who took it on. I'm conscious of that and try to take-over. I'm not very successful, the monkey writhes about and is generally very restless. It escapes, and we're all calling its name.

I, or my parents, begin to think that domesticating a wild chimpanzee was silly, and it'd be best to loose the chimpanzee from the house and our care. My father takes control, and with my mother they take the chimpanzee away—presumably to loose it, perhaps to dump it.

I wake.

Night of 3rd June 2010

Steve Jobs and Bill Gates are in fierce armed conflict in the garden of the house I grew up in. I watch from my bedroom window (not my original bedroom, but my sister's old room that I moved to).

It's nearing the decisive moment of the battle, Jobs has gotten the upper hand—his advantage seems technical rather than numerical; and it's still obvious that Gates has more weapons and firepower. I'm switched from an "opera seat" style view (out of my window) to a floating perspective, again in the air, on the road outside—I'm looking at the hedges and driveway entrance.

Jobs is in there somewhere, and Gates knows it. This is Gates's chance to eliminate Jobs and sink Jobs's victory. Helicopter gun ships hover to my left and unleash a ripping salvo of missiles at the hedge where Jobs is trying to steal to/from. Finally, one of the gunships launches the killer weapon, the biggest killing instrument, the "nuclear option" though I don't think it's a nuclear weapon. A long torpedo like missile is fired and slips through the air very slowly and very very menacingly. It cruises toward the hedge. Jobs darts out. The missile strikes in slow motion like an image of a car in a crash test. Blue waves of plasma sphere out of the hedge—whether Steve Jobs was killed or not seems irrelevant now, everything is ruined. I wake.

Night of 31st May 2010

We're all together in the house I grew up in. There are many rooms (as there really were) and each is populated by people from my real life. Events are a little jumbled to me, now in waking, but the following took place:

1) Our neighbours from Pakistan are in the loft bedroom. I see Moina, the Mum who I'm close with, attending to her son Ehsan and Samina (his wife) who are stood in front of a mirror. Moina is behind fiddling with one of them, maybe their hair or so on. I act casual and hostlike and go to give Moina a social kiss, no pretense of ceremony, etc., just kiss her on the cheek in a savvy way (of course very pretentious). As I get close Moina is too high, she must be standing on a chair, etc., and the kiss is muddled—Moina also does not fully reciprocate the "oh, Hi!" pretension of my greeting kiss.

2) In a lower bedroom, perhaps my first bedroom in the house, are Pedro and Dani—my Spanish friends from university. They are playing video games, Tekken, as we all used to when I was a student and very into the game. I used to be extremely good at this game in waking life, in the top 5 of the country, and the Spanish were always impressed. They continued to play after university, trying to emulate me (I like to think); but I quickly dropped video games after graduation—I think playing these games is very childish now.

The Spanish are in bed, and the room is scattered, like a sleepover looks the next day. I look at the screen and they have selected a secret character unknown to me. It is some kind of comicy character (most the characters in Tekken were based on macho stereotypes; secret characters were mostly the same, with one exception: "Gon," a miniature dinosaur). The character has a first and last name, uniquely, but it is lost on me in waking. I'm surprised that the Spanish have reached the level of knowing something about Tekken that I don't. They invite me to play; I say no, though I know I can still beat them easily if I wish.

3) I get out of bed and feel intense pain in my legs. I see an image of them: the backs of my legs are hideously sunburnt—the skin is a pink/red, with a strong purple undertone. I appeal to Nana for help (she was a Nurse in real life). The problem has now morphed: the backs of my legs are covered in meadows of disgusting black-heads. The acne is big and pronounced: each spot looks like a mini-volcano, with a black nib that looks like a bee-sting sunk in the flesh.

It's horrid and I want to get rid of it at any cost. I hurriedly appeal to Nana again, and she begins to pop the acne. Porridge-like ooze pops out of the spots, and I furiously join Nana in squeezing them.

4) I walk into the Australian arcade (game-centre). As I used to, I stroll in and hunt for the Tekken machine—and as long ago, I'm confident whoever is on it will be unready for someone with my skills. I stay near the door, but can't see a machine, in fact I can't see many players either—this arcade is not much fun. There is, what looks like, a Tekken machine with red buttons and a red joystick, with a white body; but the machine is turned against another so that people can't sit in front of the controls and play a game—a redundant or broken machine perhaps. I can't see another Tekken machine, or Tekken player anywhere.

But I choose to get some change and play something. I find the change machine, and someone is walking away from it as I approach. I put my coin in and wait. The coin exit doesn't look like a coin-exit should, it looks like the dispenser of a coffee machine: a plastic grill, wet, a bit dirty. My change doesn't come out; a large spider comes out. It is not the kind of spider with hair-thin legs and a chunky body, it has both chunky legs and body—like a tarantula, etc. But it is not hairy. It's a sandy yellow color and looks very generic—like a mass-produced genetically engineered spider.

I can't pick the spider up. I bat it out of the coin collect / coin exit, and it hits the floor. It moves, perhaps attempting to escape, and I try to kill it with some kind of liquid, maybe water. The killing liquid works, the spider's legs curl in, its motionless in the puddle of liquid. I go to pick it up, perhaps I even pick it up.

The arcade closes, the few players who were there file out. I follow them. The lights go out as I leave on to the night Australian street.

I wake

Night of 22nd May 2010

The setting is similar to the back-end of the family house I grew up in. However the garage is an outhouse where I, and a few other siblings, are living. My parents are in the main house, which while not explicitly identical still looks as though it's the back-end (the back door) of my family home. Family members move between the two dwellings, but I seem to stay in the outhouse.

There is somekind of tension in the air, and all members of the family are out of sorts. We all seem to be very lazy, or not our usual selves. I think my Mum has gone out on a walk—no one knows where. My Dad is also unresponsive or absent.

There's a phone call for me at the main house which my youngest sister, Melody, takes. She says she'll put it through the outhouse where I, and someone else, are laying down; but she mucks up the transfer and the call is lost. I'm very angry—it was an important call, and she fucked it up.

Back in Tokyo, I presume, I'm in favour with my old company again, and my Boss is putting me back on some work. I see him working with the chief graphic designer, Mincho, on some figures—some kind of economic calculation. He shooes me in and wants me to take this job.

It looks extremely simple: a division with a multiplying factor, then an answer. It's probably some kind of lot calculation; how many garments for how much, and how that changes with order size. When passively looking at it, it seems so simple and almost beneath me (I'm a trained Chemical Engineer); but Mincho hands the calcs off to me, and I can't do them—I need more information than is given, and more explanation of what figure is what.

I walk past Doi and Jun, two street-wear sellers known to me in waking life in Tokyo. They are scruffy and dressed like teenagers (as in real life) and walk past me on the right. As we pass they don't acknowledge, or notice, me—they thought I'd left Tokyo for good, after all. I look back as we pass, and sensing me doing this, one of them, perhaps Doi, does a double take—but still doesn't recognise me. I continue to look, they do another double take. Nothing is said, but I think they realize who I am—we both continue walking, nothing is said.

I see the feminine figure, in tight leggings, ahead of me. As I get closer I see it's a man. As I get very close I see it's a fair haired man with 70s style sideburns and facial hair. I know him (only in the dream) and go toward. I approach very friendlily—smiling, and touching him when we meet.

He's irked at me—it's been a long time since I saw him; and he says I owe him money. What for? For the drugs (he uses some kind of slang, unfamiliar to me at first, but soon remembered; I think the drug he refers to is administered by needle)—he got me and him a shot some time ago.

I'm now irked: after all this time, and he greets me in this way—and I seem to be somekind of patron of his too. He instantly asks for the money owed, and is still acting angry at me. He thinks he should get a large sum; and at this point, I unleash some of my anger out at him. I remind him that I did pay my half for that score way back, and continue: "Maybe of you'd asked for 5 pounds, a tenner—yes, then maybe. I have no money now at all, but nevermind that, give me 1000 quid, oh yes" etc., I try to shame him.

It seems to work a little. He softens his stance, we are still touching and I feel the heat of his leg against mine. We begin to walk together, continuing the conversation. I wake.

Night of 18th May 2010

We're watching television in the front room of the home I grew up in. Nana and I are sitting on the settee, Nana's mother is on the shorter settee perpendicular on our right. We all watch the screen.

It's not an out-and-out porno - more like a sex education film - but there are some graphic images of a female hand stroking a cock. It's a program Nana and me have set to watch; but Nana's Mum's reaction is not clear. There is silence as we watch. I'm anxious about what Nana's Mum is thinking of me.

The program mentions a purple condom, a thin one, and Nana nods in approval—as though to agree from experience: yes, they are the best. The condom is slipped over the penis; I think the female hand takes some pills.

We're in the 70s concrete hospital. Out of the window I see a car-park, with a concrete tower. Toward the tower a white haired man is being wheeled—and I'm excited as I realize it's "Jim'll fix it." I turn to the other person, perhaps Nana, to explain that Jim'll fix it is here.

Another saviour appears inside the hospital, though who is was is lost on me in waking. Nana's mother acts reassured, but I sense she is still politely doubting. I wake.

Night of 17th May 2010

After the huge night-time X-Games style event I'm left at the top of the piste, and it's daytime. The mountain was snowy for a moment, but instantaneously green and grassy too. It reminds me of a hill I used to play on in my home town growing up.

I descend not on foot, but on something like a space-ball, which is known to me as a football—but a revolutionary new kind of football: 3D football. I speed down the slope to meet a team of legendary football players; an inaugural game of this new type of football is about to begin, and I'm going to join in. Though my joining in seems to be gatecrashing.

I come flying into the pitch, still in the same mountain area but on a plateau (again identical to a place in the childhood recreation area previously mentioned), and break into the ranks of the football legends who are stood about on the pitch—probably picking sides for the first game. I play it as one of the lads, and am jocular as I swoop in. I pat Mourinho, who is playing in goal, on the behind as I cruise in and he seems incensed by the gesture—though he doesn't voice anything, he just glares at me.

I'm with David Cameron, and perhaps my friend is with me, in the changing or dressing room. We both, I think, are tired, but jubilant, after having come through some huge challenging test—and won through.

I'm only hanging around with David to get near his wife, Samantha, who I find very attractive (true in real life) and yearn to have sex with. Samantha appears and I'm hoping that it's me that she will comfort; but naturally it's her husband David who she goes to. I manage to contrive a situation where I'm right next to her without having made it obvious, and her arm, unwittingly, falls on my back. I feel a strong surge of excitement. But am instantly reproached by someone. Perhaps Samantha herself.

I wake.

Night of 12th May 2010 - Partial...

... walking down a section of road I used to walk everyday home from school. I walk on the left, and to my right, across the quiet street, is a copse (the same copse as was there on the walk home from school). There's a car parked on my right and it was involved in the narrative somehow, but is lost on me in waking. It points in the direction I walk.

Though the larger narrative was crystal clear upon waking from this dream early in the morning, I can only remember the section with the witch now:

I'm proceeding forward, and am ideologically challenged. I pronounce that I am a true socialist and see the witch, in the copse on my right, dressed in black with black hair, goading/doubting. There's a lit match in my hand, perhaps the flame of socialism, but the flame is tiny and frail. I try to shelter it while I walk—it seems poised to die out. I wake.

Night of 9th May 2010

We're in the formal dining room of the house I grew up in. The young shop-manager of the business I used to work for is explaining himself—sales have been bad.

I chastise him about his mistakes and tell him where he's going wrong. I was very specific, but my words are lost on me now in waking; though, I think, I said something along the lines of "you're using too much time, and time means money." My ex-Boss heartily agrees and it's as though we've repaired our relationship—I'm once again the golden boy of the company.

The police detective(s) have found us at the German boarding house. We try to play it cool, innocent. They interview us and we try to give nothing away; but we feel the heat and know we must get away.

We're speeding along the night motorway in an old Porsche 944. The detectives are in pursuit. They momentarily catch up, but I floor it and we surge ahead. I see an image of our car from the perspective of the detectives' car—we're pulling away in front.

Suddenly, there are a series of three Maestros parked perpendicular on the left of the carriageway, and both cars trying to avoid them crash. The detectives worse than us. We haul out a detective on the brush at the side of the motorway, there's a struggle.

I'm on the underside of the detective trying to choke him Brazilian ju-jitsu style. I'm overpowering him, but sense that the job needs to be finished. I draw out a snub nose revolver and push the snout to his temple. I pull the trigger.

My partner is distressed by how hardcore this has gotten, but it's too late now. I toss the gun away into the long grass. Stealing back to the car I wonder why I threw the weapon away, and notice that the detective isn't quite dead. I return.

There's a modern style pistol in the detective's jacket, a colt 45 style gun, I take it and shoot him in the head.

Contemplating suicide, I see a schema of a guillotine style blade attached over/in the mouth (the flats of the blade between the teeth, the blade facing the back of the throat). The idea is that the blade will chop the head in two uneven halfs: the lower jaw plus the body from the neck down; and the upper jaw and rest of the head.

I suddenly see this arrangement attached to my baby daughter's head. It cuts her, and I see pale, pinkish, watery blood staining the steel blade. It should be harrowing, but I don't feel scared as somehow the image is only an image of my daughter, and not actually her.

This section reminds me of the ice cream spoons.

Nana is naked on the bed. There's no blood on her midriff (after 5 months of breastfeeding her period has begun again in waking life) and she tells me her period has stopped. The image of her privates reminds me of something, in waking I think it's the grill of a modern Jaguar S-type. I'm unwillingly repulsed by it.

The visiting Japanese girl is homesick and wants to watch Japanese television shows on the TV. She can't figure out how to do it, and is waiting for someone to sort it out for her. The other person tells her that I've already set up the TV for watching Japanese shows; and I sluggishly offer to show her, resigned to getting up and doing it from my comfortable position on the sofa.

The same girl is now under some kind of medical observation and is being x-rayed. I see a circular x-ray image of her hips with three objects or some type of graphics at three points around the circumference of the circular x-ray image. I sense I'm being told something but can't decode it. I wake.

Night of 7th May 2010 - Partial...

... and the three of us get in the elevator. It's an open topped square car, the sides made of wood - like garden fencing/paneling - and we sit slumped on cushioned benches. The elevator does not travel directly up, it travels around the outsides of the square skyscraper; bumping vigorously as it rounds each corner speedily. We must hang on tight.
I seem to have done this before and appear to be the guide. The others have tagged along on this overseas trip and I'm at pains to explain each step of the journey—I try to appear calm on the elevator ride, as though I did this last time, but I have no experience of this particular elevator and hotel.
We get to the penthouse and enter our room. Once here it's time to huddle and brief for the trip. It's a business trip that I would have made alone, but as mentioned, the others have tagged along. The Boss has come too: a petite asian lady. She looks 40 in the body of a 14 year-old; however not nubile, there is something aged about her childlike frame. Her face is not overtly asian, just nuanced enough though to say she was asian. She wants to know who we're seeing; what business is to be done.
I have no plan. I'd intended to just wing it.
The Boss is incensed by this: we came all this way, payed to come all this way, took a room in an expensive hotel, and I had no formal business meetings lined up or on the cards. I feel ashamed and angry. They knew my trips were speculative, intended to build contacts in the first place; and they weren't supposed to come anyway—it annoys me that I have to chaperone them. But I am embarrassed by my total lack of fore-planning, and how having no contacts (I've been before) makes me look.
My Boss begins to chastise me about the cost of the trip and begins to condescend about how a business trip works. I interject that we have one person who will meet—at a cost of 10s of thousands of dollars. My Boss is even more angered. As I've said the words and received her anger, I feel how stupid an idea the meet was too. I wake.

Night of 26th April 2010

My Dad is trying to coach me through Chemical Engineering (as he did in waking history). But the exams are too hard for me—what's more I've been playing truant (also from waking history) so much as to not know the first thing about any of the courses. The course I'm dealing with now is maths.

I have to go in to the exam with zero preparation, or course-knowledge of the areas that will be examined, and am stressed. My father is disapproving, and lords a superiority over me (my father was also a Chemical Engineer graduate—he passed with flying colors and loved the subject). It's almost as if he's disowning me: I/we (other professors, etc.) did it, you don't meet the grade.

I'm in the box-room, like a cubicle or capsule hotel room, with Nana and Inma (Inma is my Spanish, University friend's wife). Though Nana and Inma are completely unrelated, they are as two sisters to me, like twins (Inma had a real twin in waking life).

I'm eager to get in the room as I've brought them here for a sex-session. I know I can do anything I want with them, and they must go along. In waking life neither Inma nor her twin sister were attractive to me, though before she began dating my spanish friend, and was single, I had considered making overtures to her. But Nana is the one I really want to molest.

She is also the hardest to make submit to my erotic plans. Whilst I'm trying to set Inma up, I want Nana to perform fellatio, etc.; but my preoccupation is a signal that she is not needed, and she proceeds to sit at the desk and look at the internet. She will eventually leave the room entirely.

I'm trying to make do with just Inma, lying on the floor my head is near her midriff, and I begin to rub her erogenous zones. I apply some oil, and vigorously rub—preparing for some kind of pornographic insertion. But Inma is inexperienced and won't move the way I wish. She's too heavy to move over by myself, and I appeal to Nana to rejoin the fray—but she continues using the computer. I'm trying to flip Inma over and get to penetrating, but she's uncooperative and an anti-turn on in the highest. A sheet with a hole in it - as it's often rumored strict Jews use - appears and I'm resigned to using it—anything, to just get going. My cock is going limp all this time, and the blind lust I was hoping to stoke and ignite, and profit from, is waning all the time too. Very quickly the situation is already stone cold sober.

I have to give up. Nana has already left the room. I relieve Inma. I wake.

Night of 25th April 2010 - Partial...

... My Mum wants me to go back to working for my old company. Even though the bridges are truly burned; she wants me to go back and grovel for a reprieve. It was a sinecure and she wants me to do it again. (Her attitude reminds me of the museum lady .)

I tell her "I'd rather sweep the streets." Then I emblish: I'd rather sweep dogshit from the streets. I wake.

Night of 24th April 2010

I'm trying to get to the upper level of the building. It's a huge place, comical, like a mall crossed with a fun park. I come to massive hall, or atrium, baroque styled; and I can see an upper landing, a walkway around the perimeter of the second floor, the banisters are held up by wooden posts shaped like bowling pins. It isn't a real image—it appears to me as a computer rendering. Like something you'd see in Mario64.

I begin to scale the stairs, and getting to the second floor landing a huge head, again computer rendered, like a baddy from a video-game, bursts through the floor. He has hands too, and is some sort of obstacle I must get past. The situation isn't scary—quite comical. And I notice the polygonal make-up of his face (c.f., a computer graphic) more than the danger his huge waving hands. The doll-man/jack-in-the-box baddy's whirling hands are destroying the hall we're in, and I make my exit.

I'm with the Scottish guy. I've partnered with him as though we were friends, but I sense that I need him more than he needs me. So I'm being passive, following his lead. We're walking outside the mall/theme-park/fun-park and track two teenage boys walking in front of us. They walk through some doors into another area of an adjoining building. Though they aren't dressed particularly fashionably, there's a sense that they are fashionistas, or in-the-scene at any rate.

We've walked in where they did though they are nowhere to be seen; and in fact all that can be seen is a circular, or fire-escape style, stairwell. It's like a works exit, or maintenance tunnel, leading straight up. The Scottish is going to lead us out this way—it's somehow connected with not paying (we can't afford to be at the park, or the Scottish certainly can't anyway). The Scottish knows these routes and ways to gain entry/exit without paying—and I know this is why I'm with him.

We climb and climb—and come out into blustery open air, at the top of a suspension bridge. It's harrowing. We're so high up; there are no safety measures for us; the wind is extremely strong. To get out we're going to have to scale along the wires of the suspension bridge, with no ropes or anchors to keep us on. We only have our grip.

The Scottish seems reconciled to this inherent danger—that it goes with the territory and makes no comment on the danger. He stoically begins his journey. I join.

The steel cabling of the bridge that we will shimmy along is not steel cable. I can see two ladder like tracks, both narrow, but the right one wider gauge than the left. To move along we have to lie down flat, face down, right hand and right leg on the wider right ladder track, and left hand and left leg on the thinner. A few moments in, and I'm thoroughly scared. I don't want to go on. The wind is buffeting me quite strongly and the bottom (the road, the sea below that) is so very far down I feel the distance sucking me in with every look down. The tracks are supple, and are also buffeted in the wind and I feel as though I could be dislodged at any moment. It's petrifying.

The Scottish has moved on ahead, left me behind. He shimmies slowly, and the bridge is long—so I see that it'd take a matter of days to get across it and out/home/to the other side.

Even though the right track is wider with more purchase, I intuit that if the wind were to blow me hard enough it'd be my right grip that would go the first. Meaning survival would hang on me being able to hang on to the left ladder track with my left (weaker) hand only. I'm scared even more. I wake.

Night of 23rd April 2010

In the meeting room I find myself on the same side as my ex-boss. There is the same animosity between us, and I am trying to tread carefully. It comes up that I'm moving on, and I nervously wait for his reaction.

He says to me "so Man City eh" (as opposed to Man Utd., which is presumably how I saw where I was). And I have to correct him—it's not the same city, or a nearby place, I'm going to, I'm going very far away. This seems to stun him a little. He pats me on the back, in a hollow way.

On the bus there is a loudmouthed black-person. He has a Japanese girlfriend/partner (like me) and brashly speaks in Japanese mixed with English. I find his attention seeking, show-offery annoying and wish him nothing but ill. But, wouldn't you know it, he's drawn to me and keeps making conversation. I'm sat with my friend, and he joins us. He's impressive—tall, trim, he looks just like Hugo Rodallega of Wigan Athletic.

We're going to the same hotel, and by a twist of fate, end up in the same room. I learn that he's an athlete, here for a meet—and secretly wish he fails spectacularly, whilst cowardly offering passive encouragement and support.

I see him, the next morning, strewn on the bed in a yellow Bruce Lee jumpsuit; covered in sweat (like the Beast), or water, and looking sick. I'm part happy, part concerned.

Outside we, my friend and I, see the track. It's a grass running track, like those at school, and I'm astonished at how long a sprinting straight is—I run occasionally in waking life, and know I'd never make it to the end at full tilt; and even at a modest canter would be exhausted by the finish line. This length, coupled with the black's bad state, convinces me he has no chance whatsoever.

The race is on, though they seem to be running a 400m, coming round the bend on the opposite side of the track to us, and sure enough he's falling behind. Resigned, I think "I knew it." But at this point he begins pulling forward, surging with some strength; I'm stunned as to where this power has come from. He continues to pull forward, looking ever more comfortable and hubristically sure of his victory. So sure, he pulls out a bottle of water while still mid-race and drinks then totes it in the air. A winning pose while the race is still being run. It's a photo-finish, yet paradoxically he is the clear winner.

I congratulate him. Not fully won over - I'm still jealous that his brash, loud, manner was shown to be better - but impressed none the less. I wake.

Night of 21st April 2010

We're on the plane, seated on the left side of the cabin. The hippy girl, the alpha girl of the group, is a few rows in front; she's beautiful: blonde, young, androgynous. I'm doing my best to convince her that I'm here because I'm interested in the same things, have the same outlook on life as her. I want, as do many other boys, her to take a shine to me. However, she has seen through other overtures as purely sexual in nature, and has shunned them (though she enjoys being sought after).
I'm drunk with drowsiness and let my game slip—I murmur to my friend, sitting left of me, that I'm only here to fuck her. It's supposed to be a little in-joke, only for me and him, and only to be heard by me and him. But she hears it. She stops her conversation - stood up talking to her seated, unseen, friend - and looks my way, disgusted.
Until this point I hadn't revealed a single chink in my armour. I sense that she knew all along that I wasn't genuine, that I wasn't one of her kind; not interested in the things she's interested in, and only on this plane trip (to some bohemian destination in her taste) as a means to an end. And, for my part, I knew that her disgust at other propositions was mostly feigned - as was the degree of her disgust now - and she reveled in being lusted after. We both knew we were playing games.

I spend the rest of the journey, trying to repair the damage done by my comment.

We've arrived. We're in some ethnic locale - like Morocco, or Egypt - and my friend and me are walking about. The girl had broken off from us, but this seeming to be some kind of school-trip, we expected we'd come across her again. We do. We're outside a 2 or 3 floored, square building, a house, that's to be our place of stay—and it's owned by the girl's mother. She of course will be here. We see her outside, with her friend again.

We're staying at the hotel and we're in the dining area. Not sure what to do, I'm trying to observe what everyone else is doing and what's on offer. There is the most astounding amount of cakes, sponges, puddings, and mouses—all chocolate. I love chocolate deserts and am overwhelmed at what a find this hotel is.

(next, there's a kind of rapping episode. Set in the backstreets of a city. There's a white rapper trying to prove himself, and some how his life is in danger. There is an attempt made on it. It was quite an intricate narrative with other characters, but is lost on me in waking)

Nana is in distress and I need to paint her finger nails—but there are no nail polishes anywhere. I remember the black felt-tip style "signing pens" I often write in my notebook with, and use one to begin inking up her nails. But it's not just her nails, and I must paint her skin black too. I'm stroking the black ink on her as best I can; seamlessly, it's no longer ink from my pen that I'm applying, it's soy-sauce.
It's harder to get a jet black with the watery soy-sauce; it weeps away and leaves a light brown colour. I must apply more. Though I begin to dye Nana's skin black, and we're close to getting the job done—I wonder, perhaps consciously, why she needs to be black all over, and realize that getting a black colour all over is not the only result I'll get with soy-sauce: she'll smell of the sauce, and what's more it'll be horrible and sticky all over. I wake.

Night of 8th April 2010

I'm looking at a car with my father (as I am doing in waking life). On the outside it looks like an old Fiat 500—a unique shape, idiosyncratic. This is the kind of character car I am looking for (in waking life), though I require something bigger, and indeed, though this looks like a Fiat 500 it is much bigger.

My father is impressed with the car, he indicates to me that this is a rarity and begins to explain the hallmark design features of the car. It seems to be a cabriolet, and my father is adjusting the canvas rag-top, telling me that this is the defining feature.

The rag-top is a thick strip down the centre of the roof, and doing/undoing it is an intricate affair with lots of folding and buttoning. It, the canvas rag-top, is a sky blue color with some brand-name in white written down it in a stripe within the stripe. I think it reads "Citroen."

Suitably impressed with the car, I decide to sit inside.

Like a tardis, the inside is huge, like a living room, and its shape does not match the outer facade: it is like an arrow head or chevron—the nose of the car being the point of the chevron. The car is an electric car; now so antique that I'm led to think it doesn't work anymore. Sitting in the armchair-like driver's seat I step on the accelerator pedal knowing nothing will happen. Nothing happens. I continue to step on and off the pedal, and to my surprise, after three or four of such play presses, the car moves.

It is a huge machine and moves very slowly—even so, it is quite alarming as I wasn't prepared for its locomotion and we're in a car-park with other cars parked around. I don't want to crash into anyone's property. Struggling to control the machine, I try my best to steer it away from other cars, while searching for the brake pedal. There is none.

My foot isn't on the pedal, and I'm hoping friction and loss of inertia will slow the car to a stop. It slows a little, and I've managed to exert some steering control over it, I turn to the right and guide its coast to an empty parking space in front of a wall. I now worry whether it will stop in time before sluggishly bumping into the wall. The car is an antique, and more to the point—not yet mine.

It bumps into the wall.

Leaving the vehicle, I see an image of a cracked wing—literally a wing, with a registration code on it as real planes have on the underside of their wing. The wing is yellow, and the reg. is in black—I somehow know it's the right wing. I scuttle away from the car, ashamed; and I sense my father, who was outside, is embarrassed too. I think, Well it was only a thousand pounds, I can buy it if all goes for the worst...

It's a crystal clear night, and I'm given a vibrant view of the stars. I can see them against a deep blue, not black, night sky—it's almost like a film, or heightened reality, version of the sky. I notice a Spaceship cruising against this background!

I can't believe it, and as I wonder if anyone else is seeing this bizarre occurrence, more and more Spaceships casually appear in the night sky. Not racing about, but chugging, commuter-like, across it.

The Spaceships too appear vibrantly, there is no sign of dirt on them and the sides in light are illuminated quite clearly, even the faces of their hull that are in shadow are not completely oblique.

I see many sizes and shape of craft and am beginning to enjoy watching them when the thought that they are searching for something crosses my mind. One of the craft seems to notice me and I watch it change course toward me—speeding up as it does.

I infer that it's me they are searching for, and begin to run. The spaceship follows and we're in a chase. It traps me on a long flight of stairs, like a fire escape, and a passenger jumps from the ship. A hunter perhaps.

It's at this point I realize I am some kind of special individual, possibly a member of their alien race (unbeknownst to me), and they are trying to get me back as I have some kind of special quality foreign to even them.

The chase is not scary—indeed, on intuiting that I was a "chosen one" being sought after was touching. The alien has nearly got me. I wake.

Night of 27th March 2010

[I'm part way through the dream...] And I'm making my way to an upper class Japanese area, presumably in Japan. It isn't specific: I don't know that it is Tokyo, or so on; but my intuition is that it's Karuizawa—a very well to do second home location for Japanese socialites (akin to The Hamptons for the American moneyed class). I'm making this journey by boat, perhaps ferry, and faintly remember some marine vistas on the way (in real life Karuizawa is land-locked, although there is a shoreline near to it, it is not the island my dream made it out to be).

With it being Karuizawa I'm dressed the part, very smartly put together, just stuffy enough, but with a few fun things to set me apart. I know these fun items will be unavailable to the snobby locals—unavailable because they only dabble in their own narrow tastes, and nothing else. And I'm smugly reveling in putting one over on them, without advertising the intent.

Arriving on the island I make my way to the bohemian shop. It's hard to say what the shop was: there seemed to be some furniture, ornaments, perhaps clothes in there, and the proprietor was a very fashionable Japanese man, with jet black long hair, tied back, he was about my age. I'm disgusted by their pretentious eroticizing of simple, rugged, things whilst being pampered money-bags at the same time; but I must love it too as I'm drawn to the shop and it's my whole reason for traveling this far. The shop is part way up a hill and I walk my way up there.

An older Japanese man is parked outside the shop in a mini; he sees me approaching and grins—impressed with my sartorial effort. I pretend not to notice but my tail is up at the recognition. I walk past the shop, trying my best to see inside without giving away that I'm looking inside.

It's the next day. I'm newly dressed in some vintage jeans (the ones I own in real life, my most prized jeans, perhaps my most prized possession) a good shirt, and a "furugi" (used-clothes) knit that is patterned identically to a pair of socks I own in real life (they are army-green with thick yellow, and thin purple, stitching embellishment arranged in perpendicular lines—I don't actually like the socks that much in real life). The knit feels very exclusive and special, and to match it I have some white running shoes, like AirMax90s, with the same green and yellow patterning on them. It's a less formal dress, but delicately selected—and those who know clothes will understand the quality of it the moment they see. I walk toward the shop.

Outside the shop, there is the old man again. He sees me and once again approves, his reaction is more pronounced this time, as though he's thrown a line out to me, hoping one of us will say something and begin a conversation, but I snub him—in the most humble-looking way I can. I want to appear as though I wouldn't dream of being able to talk to such cool people, and it's pure luck that I fit in so well; but, of course, what I really want is to outdo them all. Beat them. I'm shown an image of me walking away, both from behind and in front, and notice that my white sneakers had become jet black ones, and at that instant I realize that they'd been black because I'd decided to wear a black knitted hat, which was off now, so the shoes didn't match in anymore. I somehow understand that the old man doesn't notice that closely and is impressed anyway. But I recall the white shoes that match the green knit and they return to white.

Today I'm going to stride confidently into the shop. The shopfront is directly inline of the sun, and I can't really see anything for the bright rays whitewashing my vision. Trying not to look flustered I walk straight in. The sudden dark once again blinds me. By the time my vision has come back the proprietor and his female helper are either side of me, doing something with the open French Window doors I just walked through. I'm standing in the middle of the entrance of the shop, he on my right, her on my left; and seeing all the stock neatly packed away in front of me, I realize they haven't opened yet. They are just preparing the shop. I notice a clock that reads 8:30.

It's prime embarrassment for me. The proprietor has to be polite to customers, but his voice doesn't even try to disguise his resentment at me for coming at completely the wrong time.

-"we're not yet open"

I'm stuck like a deer in the headlights: whether to be confident and pig-headed, like real moneyed people are, and do what I came to do - look at the shop - override the proprietor, treat him like a servant; or whether to run away as quickly and neatly as possible. I ignore his presence and take a scan of the shop interior, one quick pan seeming like it takes me an interminable amount of time, then walk out without saying a word. The proprietor says something very catty, but masked in the language of servitude, as I leave. I can't recall the words in waking, but remember I spent the rest of the dream with a burning sense injustice wagging in the background. Wishing I'd said something back.

Leaving the shop and continuing up the hill I look about. The houses are all the shit Japanese ones built in the late 50s, the 60s and the 70s; yet in Japan these can go for a premium—whereas true antique houses are looked down upon as somehow dirty. There are no shops, every building is a habitat, and the sense of dislocation from anything moving or vibrant (commerce, people grouping) reminds me of being on an Okinawan island.

I walk into the school and roam about for a bit. The students are all in class as no one seems to be about in the halls; and I soon get to thinking that being there is a bad idea. I can't find the way I came in, but notice the front gate and make my way there. This is a swanky school and no riff-raff are allowed in, so the front gates are like a security turnstile, or revolving door, and I must make my way through them—speaking to security the other side of a glass observation window looking on to the turnstile on the way. I'm nervous about that as I have no reason for being in the school, am clearly unconnected with it, and didn't have to do this to get in, i.e., have no defense against an accusation of having broken in. I'm faffing about near the main gate when a stroke of luck occurs: a slew of people, surely students, come flooding in and out of the gates—this is my chance. I don't recall getting out, but I am at last out.

Looking at the posh houses, posh school, etc., I've been trying to remember the Japanese word for aristocrats, or upperclass, to no avail. It's frustrating me as I'm fluent in Japanese and this is a word I have used many times and know very well, but can't recall it. I stroll the streets trying to remember it.

Making my way down the hill my clothes have changed. I'm in a suit and tie, but feel like I'm looking messy and need to smarten them up. I pass a black man on the way, perhaps it is Pharrell, who I'm loath to take fashion advice from, or be judged inferior to, I adjust the suit as I walk. He notices. I notice a bank of mirrors and sinks, like an open air communal bathroom, at the side of the quiet hill road, and make for it. Pharrell has bitten though, and is following me, he knows me, trying to say hello and start a conversation. I dislike Pharrell and really wish he'd fuck off, but matters are made worse when he starts giving me advice on how to smarten up the suit—starting with how to tie the tie. I hurriedly try to re-tie the tie, hardly even noticing what I'm doing as all I can think of is how embarrassed I am. When it comes to tightening the knot, I see in the mirror something is utterly wrong. The knot is way too thick and is falling apart, and on a closer look, I see there are two ties on.

Unraveling the ties, I come up with a striped brown one and sky blue one (two ties that have been mine in real life—the blue one when I was young, now thrown away; the brown one I still own but rarely use, again, bought when I was young). This is strange as in the mirror previous, the tie had been a very deep satin purple, virtually black, one. But more than strange it is again embarrassing—these two ties are not very good ones and the choice of either makes me look like a moron. I have to lump it though, I hold each tie to my chest, and decide on the brown one. My suit is brown (although it was a sharp black one when looking at it in the mirror).

I get back on the ferry and remember the Japanese word I was trying to remember: Kizoku. I wake.

Night of 14th March 2010

A very tall residential building, perhaps a block of luxury flats, stands over the sun drenched shore. The building is tiled in the same tan glazed tiles I saw in the falling dream. I suspect the building, or the apartment where the action takes place, is Tom Cruise's.

I'm at the ground floor apartment, which overlooks the shore—and is extremely close to it. A matter of steps away. The shore is secluded, and quiet; although I don't sense it as being expansive. The water is very clear and beautiful. I can see that within a few steps of entering it the water becomes rather deep—enough to submerge an adult to his waist. The most amazing band of water colors is apparent: the shallows are (paradoxically) deep blue; the previous area a few steps in is almost transluscent, a little light blue; and beyond that all is and inky, deep blue.

I can see fish in the water it is so clear. From the beachfront veranda where I'm standing I see a small boy, perhaps snorkeling, in the shallows, and can a school of minnows, or tiny fish, following him, or he is following them. Behind this scene I notice a large fish, hunting, in the mid-distance clear water. I'm awed with the clarity of the water and this creation of nature darting about in the water. I see it coming around, and seemingly looking in my direction. Then, in nearer view, I notice a bird hovering above the water. The fish is considering an attack on the bird.

It accelerates toward shore, and leaps from the water, trying to pluck the bird from the air. However, at this instant, someone in a small skiff, or dingy; or some human intervention, unrelated, has alerted the bird and it moves to avoid the humans. Unknowingly averting the fish, and its death. I wake.

Night of 25th February 2010

It's an intimate moment between Nana and me. We seem to be in a dark room, a toilet, somewhere secluded, but still, it is not downgrade or unkempt. The setting seems to be the 1940s: we are members of the resistance, or the underground - at any rate, we have to be on our guard, wary that we may be found out. It's as though this is the first time we have met, fell in love - it all feels miraculous; although we must now be apart. We'll have no way to contact each other in the interim, and our only hope is to make a plan, a future date to meet, now. We must honor it. We're both sad to leave each other, and I feel a very great sense of love and longing for Nana. She departs.

I've missed the rendezvous. I'm heartbroken, frantic, in mortal shock - such is my love for Nana (true in real life, of course). Where has she gone now? What must she have thought seeing I wasn't there at the meeting point? Will she think our last meeting was a lie? I feel as though our chance to be together, something that seemed like sweet destiny, is lost.

I'm trying to find a way to contact her, and some of my ex-colleagues are my best chance. Although I'm not on good terms with them, I must get through that and get them to help me. One of them has a phone or fax machine that he suggests we can use to get hold of her, or someone who knows where she is now. We are meeting on the upper floor, a restaurant lounge, in what seems like a truck stop; it's dusk. He looks to me to input the number, but I have no idea. They are a bit irked that I have no idea, but one of them thinks they know how to get some information on where she could be now.

I have a number. This will provide the answer - where the love of my life is, and how I can finally meet her and be together for good. I want it more than anything. The keys on the phone/fax are plastic touch ones, not with a deep travel, but a very firm "tap" travel - as many Japanese home phones of the late 90s had. It reminds me of the home phone of the Japanese family my parents befriended and I lodged with for a few summers in the past. I don't recall the answer on the other end, or the information given - but I know now what I must do to get to Nana.

I'm nearing the apartment building where I have ascertained I can meet Nana again. It's a large round building - like a multi-story car park with the spiraling ramps up the middle - with grassy walk ways around the back and a river to one side. It looks like it would have been very upmarket in the 90s; it reminds me of a couple of apartment buildings Nana and I lived in in waking life, back in Tokyo. Both of them were too expensive for us, and we had trouble settling down in them.

Finally I've made my way toward the apartment in the building where I think I can meet Nana. I know that I will catch her by surprise, that I will be there before she is (before she returns, as I assume she is living there now). My emotions are peaking. The love, the travail, the journey to get here. Will she remember me? How will she react? Is she lost?

Entering the apartment, I see a blond haired blue eyed teenager typing, or doing some office job, at a desk. There are some polaroid style pictures on the wall - probably related to his job. The teenager is Keiran Hignett - a person I knew growing up. He is as I remember him in youth. He's wearing a white shirt and tie, without a jacket, and is smart and handsome - as he was in high-school. He seems a little shocked to see me burst in, although he is not angry - and is quite amiable when we begin talking.

I instantly ask him about Nana (thinking that I have got the wrong apartment). I can't remember his reply.

At last Nana comes home. We are reunited - however, I have no detailed recollection of what should be the triumph of the dream. We kissed. I felt love.

I'm with the "Kings of Leon." I have something in common in one of the members. It is something I have created, that, in parallel, one of them has created too - although the creations themselves are different (they have the same name, or concept, etc). The creation may be a business, or product, or work of art - I'm not sure. It, the name, was written on piece of paper, and I remember knowing the words very lucidly in the dream; however they are lost on me now.

I'm trying to be personable with the group, make them like me, as an equal, or even envy me, as being cooler or better in some way - but I think I'm making a bit of an ass of myself. I ask who is the member who shares something with me, showing the paper, or having it out in my hand. I'm expecting it to be the vocalist. However it is not. It is the huge black haired (long hair) member. The drummer I think (although I don't think they are literally the King's of Leon, or verbatim images of the members, somehow). I am next to him. We are talking, although it is awkward. I don't think we have much in common, and I think he doesn't like me much (I'm being too much of a dick, talking too much, etc). I wake.