Exhibition (night of 29/09/2013)

I get worried I am going to be very lonely in the future as everyone is moving away, or on with their lives.
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Giant sculptures of feet, made out of concrete. Outside on a cold day.
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I am with Nat and Karen at some museum. There is going to be a special performance, or film, and we eagerly queue up. The film is to be about naked bottoms. As part of the display, all patrons are given a box of sweets when they go in. There is a great queue. By the time I get up to the counter to get sweets, I have lost Nat and Karen. I am suddenly unsure of what to do as regarding the sweets. A whole box seems greedy - so do I just take a handful? I do not wish to cause a faux-pa. I decide to take a handful of jelly beans. I go into the auditorium where the film will be playing. To my horror, I cannot see Nat or Karen (or anyone else - there may have been others). I will have to sit on my own! I suddenly become afraid that the film is actually directed at a gay and lesbian audience and I am out of place. I decide to leave. I am very angry. Nat and Karen come out with me too. They are very angry with the film also.
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I am back at Woodstock Drive. Not in out old house, but in one diagonally across the street. It is night outside - pools of white light, their origin obscure. I can see our old house - no 33 - across the street. There seems to be an extra window - possible rumours of a new floor. The house is partly obscured by trees, Then I realize that I am not looking at 33. Our old house is the house next to it - further away - and is almost completely obscured by trees.

Underground DVDs (night of 27/09/2013)

In a large underground. It is dark. I am watching a DVD on a large flat screen TV. The Quality is not that good at first, but then it improves. Maybe I should watch the Doctor Who story 'The Ice Warriors'? Bet that would look excellent!

White Dogs and Old Books (night of 26/09/2013)

I am a funeral for a baby. It is unclear whose baby it is. There are member of my family there, including my cousin. I feel that I am there in some professional capacity. The father, a bearded man with short hair, is obviously heartbroken. He crouches at the foot of the tiny coffin, Sobbing becomes shrieks becomes howls. He vomits out a mess of white foam, and then he turns into a small white dog who runs away. This has happened because his grief is too much. I try to reassure my cousin that she is okay to feel disturbed ;after all, you have seen someone turn into a dog!'. I am disturbed too - finally, evidence of the paranormal! I am in another part of the building where the coffin is. I suddenly think how disturbed I would be if the white dog turned up now. Dark hallway, dark corridor. I do not want the dog to turn up again.
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A long canal boat. I am walking through this canal boat. There are lots of boxes filled with books. 'Swamp Thing volume 2' among them. I am at first pleased by this, but then I think I actually already have copies of these. Do I need to take them back with me? Perhaps I can give them to Andy? I then become concerned about whether or not you need to lock boats. The boat is long. I am suddenly afraid that people may get in from the back of the boat. The canal boat is lit by dull bulbs.
Outside. There are boxes by some kind of shed / dock type building. In these boxes are more books. I see fantasy type books. Would I enjoy reading them? I cannot remember what I started.
A tangled path running behind a low, factory type building - certainly some kind of industrial conurbation. The path is narrow, and bordered by the wall of the factory on one side, and on the a wire fence. There may be other objects - books - here from my past, lost and tangled and beginning to moulder amongst the weeds, the thorny decay.

Old Girlfriends and Old Friends (night of 22/09/2013)

I am watching some kind of film on an on old VHS video tape. At the end of the tape there is a photograph - or series of photographs. One of them shows a party, and central in the image, is a picture of Ruth, an old girlfriend. I look at this picture with surprise. Is that really her? It is. This is an actual photograph of Ruth. I vaguely remember the party it is taken at. I'm not sure how it came to be on the end of the video. I have a feeling that Sally may be something to do with it. More information comes to light. I am not sure how. Perhaps in the form of a documentary, perhaps through Sally. I learn of how Ruth's behaviour was even worse than I remembered, of how she was flirting with her own father! My reveries are interrupted by some kind of alarm bell. There is some disaster afoot! I join a queue of other people. We are waiting to either man lifeboats or release lifeboats to save whatever people have found themselves in some kind of undefined distress.
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I am walking through Brighton, just past Churchill Square and the burger stand. I notice someone I used to know - Valerie. I go to ignore her, to see if she recognises me. She does, and seems pleased to see me. We walk arms round each other into Churchill Square. She is now looking very gothic. Her skin has a smooth, almost oriental look. 'I can't believe it's been 13 years!' I exclaim/ I cannot believe that I am talking with Valerie again.

Cold Baby (night of 21/09/2013)

I am outside with a baby. The baby is cold and shivering. I wrap some kind of scarf around it. The baby is pleased.

Snow and Needle (night of 20/09/2013)

Dark streets. It has snowed. A crossroads in town, near where I live, at least in the dream.
I slip over in the snow, and a woman, my friend, helps me up. Back near where I live a teenagers on a bike rides through the centre of us. Then another teenager turns up - the friend of the first. he nearly rides into us as well, and stops. 'What can you do?' I say to my friend, meaning that as it is a child - or a teenager - it would be physically inappropriate to defend ourselves. Really though, I am scared of the aggression of the teenagers. This teenager brings out a needle. He is intending to stab us with it. The needle grows and elongates, becomes longer like a very very thin pole.

Back at the Petrol Station (night of 16/09/2013)

I am working back at the petrol station. The interior is very different, and resembles a newsagent from somewhere in my past. Ant, the old manager is there, as is Mike, whom I used to work with. There is some trouble regarding customers causing problems. I am concerned that the till area is away from the main shop, and I will not be able to keep an eye on things if I am back there.

It Won't Be Enough, Will It? (night of 13/09/2013)

I am with my cousin James in America. We are paddling in some kind of canoe boats in what appears to be a huge canal lock that has vast, steep, slippery walls.
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I am visiting Sally who is now living in Scotland. She is living in Burnside at Kinloss, where I lived when I was 10. The dream-geography is slightly different that the waking one. She is living in a house, one of a series of houses, over the other side of the burn, in the woods. This in no way detracts from the feeling of the wood as being a wood. Deep in the trees, a childhood-myth tangle.
Sally says she has something for me - a letter from Ruth - a girlfriend from my time living in Worcester (where I also shared a house with Sally). The letter says that she has changed her name because she is now married. The letter says that she was married in 1996, before we started Worcester. This puzzles me a little as I only met her in 1997. There is also a space in the card in the shape of a sprig of mistletoe, as if this has been removed. There is also information in the letter that she was convicted of 'perverting the course of justice'. It is unclear as to whom the letter is addressed, but I am certainly connected with it.
I am fascinated. An actual physical object that was written by Ruth. I recognise the loops and curves iof her handwriting.
Sally looks at me sadly.
"It won't be enough, will it?" she says.
She says this in a disappointed tone that conveys so much; that I am obsessed with the memories of Ruth, that she hoped that this letter would end the obsession with my own past.
I try and put Sally's mind at rest, and tell her that it is not Ruth per se that I am interested in, more the feeling of reaching back through time to the past, to something that is no longer there; nostalgia, memories, echoes.
One thing does puzzle me though. The year previous, I had run into Ruth in Lewes. She had said nothing about the letter - nor that she was married. I remember the meeting was somewhat hurried and awkward. I do not tell Sally of our meeting as this would ruin the symmetry of her giving me the letter.
I walk along the burn to the edge of the woods. I look across the fields to the distant houses of the Southside estate. I am delighted to see the street lamps have just come on. I watch them pink and shimmering, little glittering jewels of childhood mystery. There is a delightful shiver of the past.
I walk back into the woods again, and jump over a small brook that feeds into the burn. I say to Sally (to myself?) how strange it is to be back, how dream-like.
Sally knocks on a friend's door, a house also in the woods. I am momentarily concerned in case it is Ruth's house, but no-one answers and it is not Ruth's house anyway.
We go back to Sally's house. I am going to have a shower before I leave, but then change my mind as I do not have enough time. I am suddenly very concerned about the time of my flight. I must catch a train to Inverness, and then a plane from there.I am not even sure how my ticket works. I am in a rush and start stuffing everything into my luggage.

Hospital Administration (night of 10/09/2013)

At my old job, but this is now in the grounds of a vast hospital, no longer used for patients - at least I see no patients in the dream. The hospital is dark and comforting, full of stairways and cool autumnal corridors. Sarah is working at the hospital too. I meet her in one of the stairways. As we talk, I end up holding her hand. She does not move hers away. I am pleased by this. With a group of other people. We need to do some work. We choose to do our work (some kind of administration process) in a local pub. Andy J from my old job is leading the team. The owner of the pub, a Chinese man, comes over to tell us that he is closing and we can't do our work there. We leave. Andy J has an idea of what pub we can use. People cross the road, but I have to wait for cars to pass by. Everybody had disappeared and I can't remember the name of the pub! Should I call Sarah and find out where we are meeting?

Strange Friendly Dog (night of 09/09/2013)

I am in my parents house - this house bears no resemblance to any house they have ever had in waking life. Dark interior, cool and shadowy. The feeling it is summer outside. I am caught up in something - not sure what. A dog appears, a large black friendly dog. I scratch it's neck. The dog is pleased by this. There may be someone else in the room at this point. The dog tires of my attention and wishes to be let out of the room. I do so, and it trots down the corridor, and, as far as I can remember, curls up on a bed in another roomm perhaps my parents room.

Park Rain (night of 08/09/2013)

I am sat on the edges of Preston Park (perhaps in the Rock Garden) and writing about another Brighton park, The Level. I am writing this on my laptop, hunched over under grey skies. I write the lines 'The Level is full of skateboarders...' (or something similar). I am about to write another line about how dangerous The Level is when it starts to rain. I am afraid my laptop will get damaged so hastily close the lid.
I am in the hallway of a building leading to my flat. This flat bears no relation to anywhere I have lived in Brighton . The hallway is dark. I see Keith - who also lives in the building - come out of his flat. He seems pleased to see me. I am more pleased to see that he has two dogs that I make a fuss over.

Slivers (night of 08/09/2013)

Kissing someone. Foreign tongue. Flickering.
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Andrew and Sarah walking with their arms around each other. I am jealous.

America (night of 06/09/2013)

I am in America. It is night, and I leave a house somewhere in the suburbs of a small town. I need to go the petrol station (gas station?) on the corner - or rather, the large shop that is attached to it. I look at the coins I have in my pocket. Is that a dollar? I think a can of diet-coke is 99c but I am not sure. I hear shouts and cries from across the street. Teenage noises. Some kind of criminal youth. I hurry my pace to reach the gas station shop.
The shop is large and has a number of different sections. I want to buy a pair of trousers or jeans. To get into the section I must pass by two security guards, one of whom is Sarah B who I used to work with. I am pleased to see her and we talk awhile.
I am at the airport leaving America. I am talking to one of the customs officers there. She tells me that I will be unable to bring my glasses through customs. I am not sure why. I realise, with a growing sense of annoyance, that there is no way round this. I must leave my glasses behind. Perhaps I can post them to myself in England?

Aspirin (night of 04/09/2013)

Have I taken two or four aspirin? This bothers me. I am going out drinking. I don't want to accidentally take an overdose.

Vans (night of 03/09/2013 - or possibly the next morning (I slept rather late))

There has been some kind of apocalypse or global disaster which has necessitated us to move house. I am still sharing a house with Andy, but the house appears to be a cross between 136 London Road and 33 Woodstock Drive. We have hired out some kind of spacecraft to take us to our next house. This is forgotten as the dream progresses - along with the apocalypse - and becomes a dream about a normal house move instead.
The van, as the spacecraft becomes, is parked in the front drive. I remember looking out of my window onto Woodstock Drive from my teenage bedroom - other sections of the house resemble London road more.
There is a lot of stuff to pack. All has been left to the last minute. General anxiety-dream overtones. Searching behind things for folded up boxes. Realising there are many boxes in the attic, but we don't have access to the attic because we do not have a ladder. Trying to fix what boxes we do have with sellotape. Dad turns up and expresses justifiable disapproval that fixing things with sellotape will not be strong enough.
Nonetheless we begin to pack things in the van. I think it will be safe if I leave the keys in the ignition as we all go back in the house for more stuff. This proves to be a mistake. I look out of my bedroom window and see the van drive off up the street. The van stops, and a child, or some kind of small animal, get out. There is some confusion, as there is another similar van on the street, but, no... The truth must be faced - I have let the van be stolen.
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Someone has given us a van. I am not sure who - or rather, cannot remember in waking life. Also, despite the fact that this dream centres around a van, does not seem to have anything in common with the above dream, which also centres about a van, so I have treated it as a separate dream.
The person who has given us the van is an older gentleman, related to us through marriage. I say 'us' and by 'us' I mean my family - well, the Hermolle side of it anyway. Various aunts turn up through the dream to take turns in driving the van.
The van is a luxury van, and is very expensive. In the van there is a laminated piece of paper the older gentleman has left extolling the virtues of the van; 'once you have driven this, you will not want to drive anything else ever again'. On this laminated paper, or laminated series of papers, are a number of cartoon like illustration - faces, and woodcut style places - a windmill seems to be one of them.
Driving down roads with various aunts, including my aunt Ruth. Two children are in the way of the van. They are gently nudged aside.
Driving down London Road hill in Worcester - the road is narrow, deep and shadowy.
I have a sudden feeling that the van wa sin fact given to me, and then wasn't because I cannot drive. I thin k that I could actually drive, because I have a driving license, even if I have not driven for nearly twenty years.

Waiting in Australia (night of 02/09/2013)

A country that feels like Australia in the 19th or early 20th century.
A hot and desolate landscape out in the bush. There are a couple of buildings here that look like mills, or perhaps windmills without the sails. I am here with a number of other people. It has the feel of some interim period, a demarcation point. We are waiting to go somewhere else. Despite the fact that this appears to be set in another century, there is the feeling that we are waiting to board some plane to our eventual destination.
I need to lose my belt before boarding the plane. I am not sure why but it is important I do so. This has something to do with the fact that this country (or perhaps the airline, or maybe the owners of the farm buildings that look like windmills without the sails) is run by some kind of ultra-fascist organisation, who don't look kindly on personal liberties and freedoms.
The toilets are in a large barn type structure. As I am walking around the back of the building, I become afraid when I see one of the 'guards', a burly 'farmer type' with overalls and a floppy hat. I am scared that he will see I am going to take my belt off. He may have had a dog with him.
The interior of the barn / toilet is complicated, perhaps unisex. Dark and dank.
Back in one of the main buildings there has been a problem with the stairs. This building has some other purpose than some waiting area (or series of areas) for a plane (even if this does feel far earlier than when planes existed, aside from maybe prototypes driven by the Wright Brothers, which was not even in Australia, not even in a dream-Australia). Perhaps this is some kind of educational facility? Anyway, the stairs have disintegrated. We need to get to the upper floors of this building. A complicated series of boxes have been placed leading to a window at the head of the door. I can see problems with this. Though it may be possible to ascend to the higher levels using these ramshackle steps made out of flimsy cardboard boxes and the like, the feat of getting down them from upstairs would require feats both gymnastic and utilising a great deal of luck. No-one else seems bothered by this, and all ascend, including Paul whom I used to work with.
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Sam, the woman with dwarfism who was on a Channel 4 documentary, making some kind of connection with her and being pleased by this.
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A jar of piss. I am not sure whether this was filled because there was no access to the toilet. A bald man, who is a piss fetishist would like a glass of this. I accidentally take a mouthful because I am mistaken that it is apple juice or some other kind of refreshing beverage. I nearly vomit and wake. A rather disgusting dream I wish I had not remembered.

Foreign Supermarket (lunchtime of 02/09/2013)

I am in a supermarket in some foreign country. I am not sure what country it is, but it has the feeling of somewhere hot, perhaps Spain or the coast of Tunisia. I am with someone else - perhaps my sister - and we are sat on mattresses. I go to sleep for a while on a mattress, but wake with a start. Is it right to sleep on the floors of foreign supermarkets? I remember looking down an aisle where a sign hangs from the ceiling. Though the sign appears to be in English, I can't read it.

Wrong Address (night of 01/09/2013)

A number of packages have been delivered to my flat. At first I am quite excited because I think it is for me (perhaps my copy of 'Noctuary' by Thomas Ligottti) but am then suspicious as it is Sunday. The packages are green, and to my disappointment, see they are not addressed to me.
I turn them over in the sunlight on the front mat. My first thought is to put them back in the post with 'not at this address' written on them. Then I think that they are too large to go in the post box. Actually, I ponder, how on earth did they fit through the letter-box? All the packages are far larger than the letter-box. I even start to fiddle with the letter-box to see if there is any way to make it larger.
I am able to see into some of the packages. One of the packages contains someone's photographs. Some of the photographs are very old. I try and explain to Andy how we have to find the owners of these packages as these photographs will be of high sentimental value and cannot be replaced. Andy is not as excited as I am about this.
(At Brighton Beach. A dark sunset. Brighton Breach now seems more rural. Sand-dunes and grasses. A wild sea, heading towards twilight.)
By looking at the photographs I can see that one of the photos is taken in a school. I think that if I can get the name of the school (which I can vaguely see on a sign in the background) then I could maybe combine that with the person whose name is on the package, find out what city they live in, and perhaps track them down that way? I also think the school is northern - perhaps based in Middlesbrough - perhaps even Andy's old school?
The next thing I know I am actually in the school itself. This is in no way strange. I look for the sign. The school is some kind of educational facility for the blind, or specially gifted or something. I must remember the name.
I am back walking toward the beach, now with Em. Em says that I look happy. I realise that I have been acting quite happily - chirply walking, maybe even whistling! Then I realise that I am not happy - not happy at all, and am in fact, incredibly melancholic, even grief stricken.

4th Floor Non-Suicidal Urge (afternoon of 01/09/2013)

I am in a room on the 3rd or 4th floor of a building. The room is bright and tidy. It has the feel of a hospital room, or perhaps where I used to work at the call centre. It is sunny outside. I look down at the sea, and have an urge to fling myself out of the window, not because I am feeling suicidal, but because this is what sometimes happens when you are on the edge of a precipice. Sarah is in the room with me. I hold two black seeds in my hand. I back away from the window, slightly panicky, and think about telling Sarah that she will not see me the next day, which in the dream is a Friday, because I need some time to myself. I then think that I shall just disappear for 24 hours.
I wake up, wrenching myself out of sleep with a panicky lurch.

Ligottian Suburbia / Present at a Hanging (night of 31/08/2013)

I am with a group of other people in America. We are in a stereotypical suburban street, (large houses set back from the road, leafy trees, yellow summer grasses) reminiscent of Portland, but with a more rural feel. The street we are in is empty and is a cul-de-sac. The cul-de-sac is to be used as some kind of location for a Thomas Ligotti adaptation (it is not clear what kind of adaptation it is going to be). I am very puzzled by this. The series of stories that the adaptation is going to be based on makes it quite clear that the American suburban street must not be a dead end. This is somehow integral to the stories. I am very puzzled by how the adaptation is going to work. There is nothing like these stories in Ligotti's waking life oeuvre. I hear a television set. Someone is playing a video of the short film 'The Frolic' (A Ligotti adaptation which does exist in waking life). I turn around but the street is still empty, and there is no sign of the television that I have heard.
(the side of a large house, a path behind the house, large trees and a feel of space sloping downward)
We are staying in a rented house. I am sharing a room with someone I used to work with (but never spoke to in waking life). We have to share a large double bed, but this only becomes apparent when I get out of the bed. It is morning. The person who is in the bed takes all of the covers. I go to sleep on the floor. I say this is because it is 'better for my back'. There is a discussion about the time. Neither of us know exactly what the time is, but it is undoubtedly time to get up.
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It is unclear whether I am going out with this girl or not. There is a feeling that we were once involved, split up, and are now being involved again. She is dressed in black and is blonde haired. She, along with four other women, have been convicted of a crime. It is unclear whether they are guilty or not, or indeed, what the crime actually is. They are to be hung. I am in the execution room with. The five women are all quite calm and cheerful as they stand under the nooses (attached to one long plank of wood). My girlfriend tells me it will be okay because she has a plan - this is also something to do with the prison guards also. Despite the fact she will be hung, certain drugs have been ingested, or certain techniques have been learnt- which will ensure that she survives the hanging and she will see me in a few days. I am unsure of this, and the prison guard pats me on the shoulder and says 'no promises'. I leave the hanging room out onto the busy streets of a town. I cannot believe they are hanging my girlfriend. I cannot see how she will survive. I am distraught.