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.