Morning Terrors

I’ve just woken up from some of the ugliest dreams I think I’ve ever had. I was married, and evidently rich. I know I was rich because when my wife took off in the middle of the night to make skanky, horrible, bukkake-esque love with numerous menfolk, she took my convertible Mercedes with her. I know of her betrayal because she told me. She told me because I confronted her, and she told me in that horrible, vindictive, ‘I want to make you suffer’ way that people sometimes adopt when they’re brimming over with hatred.

Then there was the violence, courtesy of someone I used to know at school. At school he had mental issues – I think he was schizophrenic; in his teens he became possessed by the devil and heard messages from the government in children’s TV. In my dream he approached me and was about to beat me up. He was very powerful and there was nothing I could do. To my right, there were eight or so people seated in a large four-wheel drive vehicle. As my tormentor approached me, slowly, I looked to the people in the SUV and begged for their help. I could see by the expressions on their faces that they knew it was wrong to just sit there and watch, but that’s what they did. One of them was my tormentor’s father. I don’t know who the others were. They watched as my tormentor began to beat me viciously and relentlessly. I saw his fists hurtling toward me, and felt their impact. It went on for ages. Then I woke up.

Unfortunately, I know exactly what it means.

Have a nice day!

x

Night Terrors

Having cut out the wonder-weed along with the demon weed, I find that I am dreaming rather vividly at the moment. Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. Well, desired me. But it was a friend of mine, so it was a bit odd. She came into my room and lay on top of me, on top of my duvet too, so that I couldn’t move. Then she kissed my face repeatedly and told me she’d had an erotic dream about me. I told her she’d better go because I was becoming aroused.

Then I dreamt that Tony Soprano was whipping me with a chain. I tried to crawl away but I realised that this might anger him further, so I crawled back into whipping range, and he continued to whip me, mercilessly.



Then I dreamt about kittens. Lots of dreams about kittens. One in particular about two kittens, one of which was grouchy and unplayful, the other of which was your classic frolicking kitten. I chastised the grouchy one, grabbing it roughly and shouting at it. ‘Why can’t you be like the other kitten?’ I yelled in its miserable face.

Then a fox hissed at me and another cat coolly caught a pigeon, wrapping its jaws quite savagely around its neck. The pigeon did not resist. It barely moved, just accepted its pain, blinking calmly.



What can it all mean?

In a couple of weeks, I’m going to get hold of an anti-smoking pill that apparently has vivid dreaming as a side-effect. I can’t wait. The scarier, the better.

Now I must attempt to write something amusing. In the last month, three new writing opportunities have arisen through this blog, a couple of them very interesting, one not so much. The one I’m about to embark on now is potentially extremely interesting. No money at the moment, but you never know where these things might lead. You know? You never know.

Pleasant Tuesday to you. Blessings be upon you.

I Am the Woodlouse

I have a friend who once found himself urinating next to Martin Amis at the ICA. Thankfully, they were both in the toilet at the time, positioned at adjoining urinals. My friend was very interested in drugs in that period of his life – from an academic as well as a practical perspective – so, knowing that Martin Amis wasn’t opposed to a little dabble himself, my friend asked the urinating author which drugs he considered most efficacious for writing. ‘Cannabis,’ replied Amis, tapping the old man thoughtfully. ‘It has a shamanic quality.’



When my friend told me this story, I was thrilled. One of my favourite writers of all time had basically, via a pissing intermediary, said: ‘You carry on the way you are, Stan. You’re doing everything right. You’re going to be OK. Oh, and… get dental insurance.’

Speaking of cannabis, one thing that’s become extremely clear again recently is that although it can, if used carefully, buttress the process of writing, it in no way contributes to a healthy dream life. Currently, however, I haven’t smoked anything for more than a month and I find that I’m dreaming like a drugged wizard.

In fact, as I write this, it's just after 5 a.m. on Saturday morning and I’ve just woken up from an unpleasant dream about Morag.

Actually, I’ve been having lots of unpleasant dreams about Morag recently. In fact, even dreams that did not seem to be about Morag, may have actually been. For example, the dream about the woodlouse.

Sometime last week I dreamt that a woodlouse was living in my chest hair. I was happy about this, despite the fact that when I looked down, it seemed to be coming apart at the seams, its little legs and its almost transparent carapace separating as it struggled in my manly pelt. Then, when I woke up alone, sans woodlouse, I felt horribly alone. Not happily alone, as I have on occasion felt. No. Horribly alone.

Whereas this morning I dreamt that Morag and I were still together and she was distant, down and distinctly uncommunicative. Something had happened with a mutual friend. She said it was something to do with money, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. I didn’t believe her. I woke up in distress. I found myself wanting to go back to the dream and ask her if she loved me at all; if she’d ever loved me.

Could it be that I’m not actually over her?

I don’t think so – I mean, I am over her. It’s not like I want to go back. We weren’t right. I want someone who’s right for me. I want someone who can love me wholeheartedly and Morag couldn’t do that. Not for long. What’s preying on my mind now is the fact that I loved her more than I’ve ever loved before and I’m afraid I’ll never be able to do that again, for fear of doing it wrong, for fear of loving the wrong person. But then just because it didn’t last forever doesn’t mean she was the wrong person to love.

Oh, fuck it. I’m going back to sleep. Perchance to dream sweeter.

...

Sunday night, Monday morning...

I didn’t dream at all last night. Or at least nothing stayed with me. Typical. I’ve cursed it. I will never dream again.

I’m floundering about a bit at the moment. In general I mean. I don’t really know what I’m doing with this blog. And I don’t really know what’s happening with the book. I guess it’s early days still. But on the whole I’m feeling a bit fed up. With everything. Mostly I’m fed up with being cut off from everything. I need change. It’s coming soon I know, but I kind of need it now. So – in the absence of change, I’ve decided to plump for something which is apparently just as good: a rest.

Oh! And well I never. I’ve just realised that a year ago this week, Keith’s old flat was flooded and I stopped blogging till the beginning of September last. That settles it then. This year – although I don’t have the excuse of an act of God – I’m going to do the same. I’m having some time off. Yes. It’s a decision I’ve made. I might draw the occasional Jackson and tweet the occasional nonsense, but unless something staggering happens, I’m away from here till September.

And just in case you’re wondering, this has nothing whatsoever to do with any shame I might feel over my misquotathon in the Daily Mail today. In fact I feel no shame at all. Not that I'm claiming that I’m suddenly a fan of the newspaper. Heaven forfend. I still regularly entertain unimaginably violent fantasies involving Amanda Platell, Peter Hitchens, Richard Littlejohn, Liz Jones, Christopher Hart, a roll of cling film and a meat tenderiser. However, I would like something a friend of mine said – when I mentioned my misgivings on the day of the Mail interview – to be taken into consideration. She said, and I quote:

‘I’m all about preaching to the unconverted, so I think MUCH better to speak to The Enemy, have some of their number find and fall in love with your writing, then be convinced by you that they should live better. It’s really an actively good thing you're doing.’

You See? An Actively Good Thing.

Plus, I’m hoping it’ll sell some more books. Not because I want the money, you understand, but because I want to Heal The World with my words.

Oh, and if you’ve come here from the Daily Mail, and you’re genuinely not aware of what a hideous paper it is, then look at this. And have a good long think about what you’ve done.

So. That’s all for now. Oh, except this, which is funny.

Right. I'm done.

See you in September. In London!

Oh, and I realise of course, that in many ways – deep breath – yes – I am the woodlouse.



Goo goo g’joob.

Feedback Friday :: Shami Dreamer

bulk :: 16st 2
exercise :: none
appointments :: 1
disappointments :: 1
prophetic dreams :: 1

So. You will notice that I have lapsed. My year of living salubriously seems to have hit a brick wall. There is however, a reason for this. The reason is, I don't give a damn anymore. I have completely given up.

I have decided that rather than ending the year a lithe, healthy 31-year-old in a rewarding and loving relationship with a gloriously special lady, I shall end it a lonely, 24-stone disaster area with a fucked spine and a heart condition. Rather than running the London Marathon, my ambition is now to save up enough money for gastric bypass surgery.

I jest of course.

In reality, a second person - Frank - suggested that it would be very unwise of me to continue exercising until I make sure that my back is OK, so I have decided not to take any risks. In fact, I have made an appointment with a chiropractor for next week. Finally. Fingers crossed I'll be back running and cracking on with the healthy stuff very soon, and not - worst case scenario - sitting in a wheelchair covered in biscuits.

In other news, the flat I was hoping to move into in a couple of months has – for reasons very much not worth going into - fallen through. So it looks like I may be living with Keith for the rest of my life. Or at least until he moves his adorable new girlfriend in and kicks me out.

So. This morning around 7 I awoke from a very strange dream. It went a little like this...

I was attending an event – a talk about human rights – with Sally. We weren’t together in a sexy way, but it was quite clear that she wanted me. I meanwhile, was playing it very cool.

There were a couple of hundred wooden chairs laid out in rows and people were milling about waiting for the talk to begin.

Shami Chakrabarti was giving the talk, and – unusually for her I think – she was going to finish by performing a few songs on her ukulele.

Sally and I sat in the front row and somehow, quite suddenly, I had Shami Chakrabarti’s ukulele in my hands and I was trying and failing to play it. This was enormously frustrating because in real life I am shit hot on the ukulele. In the dream however, try as I might, my fingers would simply not do that which my brain asked of them.

Then all at once it came together and for about five seconds I played the most complex and hauntingly beautiful arrangement which has ever been played on any musical instrument, ever. But it didn't last long and it ended with me loudly and embarrassingly breaking two of the strings.

At which point, Shami Chakrabarti decided she needed her ukulele. When she saw what I’d done to it, she was furious, and I was mortified. Embarrassed and ashamed.

Suddenly, from nowhere, David Tennant appeared. He told me he’d smoothed things over with Shami and explained to her that I’m not a bad sort really, but if I wanted to get out of this situation with my dignity intact, I’d better get the ukulele fixed immediately.

So I took off and ran for all I was worth through this rather quaint, slightly Dickensian town. I flew into the first music shop I found and asked about ukulele strings. I was in luck. Except for the fact that I hadn’t brought the ukulele with me. So I ran back to Shami, grabbed the ukelele, ran back to the shop, restrung the ukulele, then ran back again to the event where everyone was waiting. However, on that final stretch, that's where things turned awry. Suddenly, I found that no matter how hard I tried, I could no longer run.

I just couldn’t lift my legs. Like I was up to my hips in wet sand.

I began to panic. I couldn't breathe. I didn't think I was going to make it.

Then, quick as a flash, things changed and I was there.

I handed over the ukulele and everything was OK.

I woke up.

So.

What on earth can it mean?

Well, for me it’s obvious.

What it means is - simply - that everything is going to be alright.

Phew.

Have a lovely weekend.