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.