strange dreams


spooky moonI don’t remember too much about learning to write stories as a kid, but what I do remember is being told on several occasions not to write about dreams. Especially not to end a story and then I woke up and realised it was all a dream.

Seems like a bit of a shame, really, when that’s where all the good stuff happens.

Another piece of writing advice I recall (not as a kid, though – by this point I was still giving the whole storywriting caper a crack well into adulthood) is you can’t introduce a gun and not fire it.

Which seems to be the opposite of real life, where you’re not supposed to have a gun in the first place, but if you do you’re probably best not to fire it. Or something like that. Unless it’s the season for preying upon small animals, of course.

In the course of my working day today, I spoke – actually spoke – twice. Sure, I did a lot of electronic liaising. But I saw no one and spoke twice. Not counting talking to the cats. I never even left the house, and now that I look down and see what I am wearing, I realise that I am actually still in my pyjamas, with a glass of wine in hand, at 8.56pm on a Thursday.

My point is – when I finally get to it – that I know why I leave the house. All day today last night’s dreams hounded me. There were so many of them, and they were all intricate and drawn out. There was nothing particularly sinister about this batch of nocturnal defragmentations, but they were still sort of oppressive. Hard to shake off and sticky, like those biddybid things that get caught in your clothes and the cats’ underbellies when they’ve been out roving in long grasses.

I dreamed I fucked up the work project I am currently working on (an understandable dream, because it could easily happen in real life); I dreamed I went on a factory tour; I dreamed I babysat a bunch of kids in a swampy garden and wore the mother’s purple feather earrings and watched TV; I dreamed I went into an antique store and there was all this stuff I wanted to buy, including a rough painting of a pear, which was $1000, and by the time I went back to buy it someone else had bought it.

I dreamed Si&I lived in Petone and it was like a bubble where no one ever needed to leave Petone. Even the ads on TV (in my dream) were about Petone. Petone was all there was. I’m pretty sure the antique store with the pear painting was also in Petone.

I dreamed I was sitting at a board table and the girl opposite me kept fawning over her giant blingy engagement ring. Some of the stones had fallen out and it looked like it had come out of a Christmas cracker. Actually it looked a bit like my real life engagement ring, only the cheap-arse cartoon version of it.

I dreamed they were playing Muzak really loud at work. It was pristine with lots of metal room dividers and they’d implemented a clear desk policy/paperless office scenario which was making me highly uncomfortable. Come to think of it, it was like a really upmarket call centre. I might have even had a headset.

And there is no real conclusion to any of this, other than and then I woke up and realised it was a dream. But then the dreams went and seeped into everything and have got me all disoriented.


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