Deep In Southside (morning of 02/08/2015)

I am walking through Southside with C. from work. I am very pleased to - finally - be walking through Southside as night falls - finally I shall be here at the mystical time when the street lamps come on! C. is telling me how her husband L. is angry with me because he thinks that I fancy C. We both agree how ridiculous this is. C. Lives in Southside and we are presumably going to her house. She lives deep, deep, deep in Southside - beyond even 66 Abbey Crescent - that unobtainable goal of all these dreams. Southside is large and deep and dramatic - more buildings than when I lived here - more people too, running about in the darkness. Vast orange street lamps running down sharply angled, quickly shadowed streets. Trying to appreciate being at Southside after dark. I then notice that it has got light again. This does not seem that odd in the dream. We come to my old house - the buildings now seem to be housed inside some kind of  giant P.E.Gym hall, like at school. The houses themselves - we can peek inside - seem not to be houses any more but giant launderettes / washing rooms. Women peek out at us, They do not seem particularly interested in my wild gesticulations that I used to live here. We walk on, and find ourselves in an enclosed walkway - very much like the walkways found in airports. It is bright daylight now. I look up and see my old friend Paul. I greet him. He looks at me and recognizes me (in waking life, Paul has been lost to schizophrenia for many years). We have an awakward conversation that does not make real sense. We walk on. I explain to C. the nature of Paul's illness. She says that he lives on his own in Southside and 'runs rings around the houses' - which I take to mean that he spends most of his days just wandering around the estate. The walkway comes to an end - and in the bright sun I see a number of teenage boys / young men, lying on the grass, face down, not moving. They are sleeping - or resting - but the very unnaturalness of their poses suggests something else - death, or perhaps some other kind of corruption whose nature I can only begin to contemplate.

Too Late For Emily Jones (morning of 02/08/2015)

A sunny day. I am in some kind of building that is either used for work or education. This building is not known in real life. It has the feel of June - an end of term feeling. Lots of people about. I leave the building - at the behest of a friend. There is a group of people playing instruments and singing on the lawn. One of them is the folk singer Emily Jones. I sit down on the grass to watch her, The gig comes to an end. The musicians disappear inside. Cold shadows. I wait for them to come back out. I am too late again.