Firstly, an apology. I don’t normally record my dreams because it is a truth universally acknowledged that other people’s dreams make vastly uninteresting reading. However, the night before last’s and last night’s dreams were particularly vivid and did not involve Daleks, so it is possible my unconscious may be trying to tell me something more useful than “Quick! Hide” in which case I should perhaps pay attention and attempt to unravel their significance. All suggestions welcomed gratefully.
**Aside: I should note at this stage that I don’t eat cheese before bed**
So, I’m walking through the streets of what I know is London, although it actually looks more like a Piranesi drawing – colossal and crumbling stone buildings, many partly ruined, but whose proportions are all seemingly built to house Titans rather than humans. The skies are overcast and water is running in clear rivulets down the cobbled streets. There are crowds of people all busily heading somewhere on foot and traffic is pretty much at a standstill – a mixture of modern cars and horse-drawn vehicles. None of which, of course, seems odd because its a dream.
I’m trying to make my way to higher ground so as to look across the city and figure out where I am. I’m lost but not concerned by it – I know I’ll see something I’ll recognise if I can get a clear view of the whole.
Then I’m at a lover’s home. We’re on or near the river but there is no running water in the bathroom and the place has the communal feeling of a decent squat. I’m standing outside in an overgrown garden, naked but wrapped loosely in a sheet, leaning against iron railings. I’m conscious that a man is observing me but I’m not unduly worried by it.
Then I’m inside, using the bathroom for my – fairly rudimentary – ablutions when I’m interrupted by a young man. He backs out, apologising, and I carry on. The bathroom ‘door’ is just a stringy old candy-striped towel hanging like a curtain between the tiny area of the loo, the stoneware bowl which serves as a sink, and the rest of the place. A sponge on a stick, à la Ancient Romans, is provided instead of loo roll. There is a small window, though (Thank you, Subconcious – I hate windowless spaces).
Next, a red-haired man is there and we exchange the only bit of dialogue in the dream:
Me: “Who are you?”
Him: “My name is Damian.”
Me: “Of course it is.”
He is polite, but there is an undeniable air of menace about him. Is he the landlord or some kind of unpleasant ‘fixer’ character? Whatever, I’m aware and so is he that I’m not supposed to be there, but I’m quietly defiant. I’m also certain that he is from Essex, which allows me to feel superior to him, even though I’m a little afraid of him.
I have spots on my face but nevertheless I’m confident that I’m beautiful and desirable, so I head into the room next door where my lover is waiting for me. There are paint brushes and a mug of tea outside on a mossy windowledge. The window is open but I’m not chilled by the draught, and the air smells as though it has just blown through a forest. I get into the warm bed and reach for him and the alarm goes off.
Some elements I can pin down: they’re the result of things from my past or from the activities of the day, for example, the candy-striped towel is one of my grandmother’s from the old dairy on her farm and the red-haired man called Damian must have something to do with the episode of Life I watched before I went to bed. I’m working on a book about the Romans, hence the loo stick.
Other than that, I’m stumped.