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.