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.