Tuesday, 2 February 2021


"All you know.... has just slipped away...."

Indeed it has, leaving our resident 'dreamescapist' Rob incapacitated (to say the least!)... As such all headventures beyond the dreamescape transmissions are currently on hold until such a time as he recovers - he's found his feet but he ain't too steady, Eddie....

Still, there's plenty here to be going on with and even more action at the (similarly unanticipated painful contact with the ground to a halt) Braw Books blog....

Acetone - All You Know

Monday, 25 January 2021


I am in a bar with my friend Dee Bee. He is recounting an experience he had there and (being the dreamescape) it then seems to bleed into realtime, the recollections merging with the present, the events described unfolding before my eyes (almost as if I am witnessing/near-interacting directly – given time it all mergews into one). The bar has a glazed wall to the front and is spread over three levels each up a flight of timber central stairs and stepped back from the other, a timber handrail running alongways and tables and chairs grouped to either side. The timber is unfinished throughout and the bar has a pleasantly low-key, rustic and relaxed feel, the chatting people often reduced to dark shapes against the soft natural light. Dee Bee is staking out the (Charlatans) singer Tim BurgessTim, in his Phoenix '95 era, is animated, drinking and cajoling with a couple of male friends – hoping that he can (gently) collar him at some point and play a tune (he has been carefully planning out) on the small organ that lives on the highest level. “It's now or never...” and so Dee Bee ambles from where we are seated, approaching Tim, who is standing chatting to the left of the stairs that lead to the third level and- 

Success! We are now on the third level. Dee Bee sits on Tim's left hand side at the small (timber cased, with a high back like an upright piano) organ. They are jamming out The Charlatans track 'Weirdo', with Tim following the song's chords with single fingers while a crouched Dee Bee solos intensely on the high notes, the fingers of his right hand working away feverishly to produce a rolling, rapid riff. Dee Bee finishes on a sustained high note and I joke to (The Charlatans guitarist) Mark Collins, who has been lounging impassively next to me all this time, that it must be the 'Tinnitus Remix'. He and I laugh at this- 

I am now sitting at a table to the right of the stairs up from the first to second level. Myself, Dee Bee, Mogwai guitarist Stuart Braithwaite and A.N. Other are chatting and drinking. Dee Bee excuses himself (and A.N. gently fades out of the dreamescape) and Stuart and I continue talking. Stuart's face is all wobbly around the edges, the dreamescape applying a drunken visual effect to match his loose, boozy patter. Stuart asks me what age I am and I say I'm 43. It turns out he's actually 42(?) and, surprised, we joke about how I'm obviously ahead of the curve! I ask him what he studied at University (wondering if we might have by chance met back then) and he says Psychology. He remarks he studied for a year in Ireland then he went off to Argentina for a year (the details of which are a bit 'hazy')... Dee Bee is getting ready to leave for his train back to Edinburgh and I am torn between offering to buy Stuart a drink and heading off myself. I check the time and it is 10:12, much earlier than I thought. I decide to stay with Stuart and Dee Bee gives me quite the forlorn backward glance as he troops off down the stairs to leave. (I am quite vexed by this decision at the time.)- 

I am now out walking in a sort of docklands area with Stuart. He drops a ping pong ball, with a small black pen mark on it. I scramble to retrieve it from under a concrete bench, saying about how he should do something similar at Mogwai gigs. He then tells me about the maddest thing he (and a pal) ever did at Art School

Cut to – swimming in the water. Stuart and his pal are paddling, swigging from bottles of beer as they do so. They are barely keeping their heads above water and it laps over my dreamescape 'camera POV'. I am then standing at the edge of the pier/dock, looking down on Stuart as he awkwardly shimmies his way up the stone wall, settling his elbows then drawing up his legs. He says that this is a technique called “…?”, a statement immediately echoed by my (suddenly appeared) little brother-

Wednesday, 20 January 2021


I am with two men who are building the (timber) hull of a ship. They seem to be competing with one another and, until their respective fathers and grandmothers appear, I have the impression that they are brothers. The deck of the ship – which is moored and afloat in a flooded dry dock – is completely clear, all the work, on a network of long access corridors and rooms, is being conducted below. At one point it is as if we are all (somehow) suspended and we are using our feet to turn, submerge and (thereby) test the watertight nature of the bows/hull. (Of course, as well as our unusual means of suspension, the hull seems tiny as we easily rotate it and dunk it under the water with our feet.) I am below deck and helping a man (possibly some sort of build quality inspector) to shuffle a bunch of intricate (but quite flat) architectural models to one side to allow us to put a model (of the ship?) in their place. We are in one of the corridors and the models are resting on a timber, table-esque shelf-

Tuesday, 12 January 2021


I am up close to a large-ish long-haul plane. The pilot, a blonde, sturdy looking woman dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and dark blue slacks, chats casually with a member of the ground crew. From what I overhear I note her Australian accent. Knowing the length of such flights I think that the other pilot must be sleeping (somewhere!). The next 'component' of the plane, immediately behind the cockpit, looks like a long railway container truck, complete with wheels, that sort of clicks into the plane's fusilage ready to be dropped straight onto the tracks. I am inside now and walking through the seating, 2 seats to each side of the aisle – mostly light grey with blue patches to the headrests – and only several rows worth. Beyond that, on my left, two guys are loading great gas canisters horizontally into place, the first of which is being pushed, quite sloppily into its 'holster'. The end with the valve has what looks like a huge slice of lemon or orange around the top (for cooling purposes, I recall thinking). I watch the next guy shove the second canister into its spot and am just a little concerned – what if it's accidentally empty or not fitted or secured correctly? Passing by it seems the rest of the plane is quite sparse, comprising an empty hold of sorts with long banks of intermittent lighting inset into thick trunking running along either side at about chest height. There are two large square 1m x 1m boxes to either side of me. Although covered in tight tarpaulins almost down to the floor I am sure – is my mother with me at this point to verify? - they are (instant) photographic developers. There is a guy, dressed in a smart dark blue and brass buttoned uniform lying on the floor. At first I assume it's the other pilot resting - his head and shoulders are hidden under the left hand bank of lighting – but quickly realise (as another man emerges into the dreamescape and converses with him) that he must be carrying out some sort of electrical repair. The thought (and sight) of this is further cause for concern. Is the plane safe? Soon enough a blank bank of the lighting flickers to life, his job done- 

Kay Emm and I preparing to go on holiday. Our Taxi has just arrived (at what appears to be my childhood home as enough of the environment feels familiar if not quite an exact match). Either Kay Emm or the Taxi driver (who has joined us in the house) takes or makes a call to his next set of passengers (who, I think, we might be picking up en route). There's some confusion about their religious/social stance that ultimately boils down to the fact that, as Kay Emm explains, they will not tip the driver. As we leave, via the back door, I ask Kay Emm if she is sure that everything is switched) off? This query throws us both into an immediate panic and we run back into the house and pace about, pulling back tangles of cable and checking every corner to ensure all the sockets are clear, to check nothing is still plugged in and on. In a far room – that would in my childhood home be as far from the back door as possible, being my parent's room – there is a toaster-like electrical appliance that is sporadically emitting bursts of flame, spitting sparks and ash onto the surrounding fluffy brown carpet. I pause and simply shrug at Kay Emm, raising an accusing eyebrow in her direction. We quickly, and carefully, pull away some (potentially flammable) papers and plastic packing from this fiery device-

Monday, 4 January 2021


I have been out working (outside?) with Daniel (from the cult Icelandic situation comedy Naeturvaktin) and a crew of people. I feel suspicious of them, and am somewhat paranoid that they are out to get me and am thus wary of the following day - Daniel has stated it will be long and that I should bring "two beers" with me. As such I find myself in a supermarket (with fellow sitcom character Olafur?) and we are wandering around the tightly packed shelves looking for specific stuff. I am quite keen that I do not bump into anyone from the work crew, my sense of paranoia (of them making fun of me or disliking me) at an extreme. I am looking for a 4-pack of Milky Bar yoghurt desserts. I think I have found some - I am being directed in my hunt by what seems a mash of Olafur and Kay Haitch, my young nephew - but these are in fact individual pots. I am inspecting what certainly seems to be some variant of a Milky Bar product when I realise that I am in amongst the 'Stock Pots' section, and that all the surrounding items contain a thick brown liquid and these are evidently for stewing-

Thursday, 24 December 2020


I am at a woman's house, sitting at a wooden table in her kitchen. She is dressed quite formally and sits up straight, her fine (if a little strained) features framed by a short, curly 1930s-ish hairstyle. I seem to be keen on knowing the time, thinking that after a certain hour (10 or 11pm) I must contact Kay Emm to inform her of my whereabouts/safety. Unfortunately my (smart) phone seems to have been hacked/encrypted by some form of (Japanese) virus. Whenever I attempt to access it to send a message the screen adopts a fuzzy tv-esque pixellated picture, a classic arcade machine 'Space Invader' graphic in purple on an off-white background. I try several times to send a message and eventually give up in frustration-

Someone is packing (my belongings?) into a case on the table, carelessly jamming them in. I am aware, though not exactly how, that I have spilled my great oversized mug of tea – it seems to simply slide and fall perfectly from the table, the contents splashing on the floor and wall. I feel I am making a point about slavery (although the woman considers it a mockery) as myself and two jazz-suited older black men – complete with pencil moustaches and pork pie hats – wipe the slop of my tea, which now somehow has a brown and white mixed colour and the consistency of melting, gooey ice cream, from the skirting. Does the supposed offence relate to the death of one of the black men's fathers (or Malcolm X)?-

Wednesday, 16 December 2020


Intuition tells me I am at my old childhood home, although much of the environment is altered. I am inspecting the floor by the fire, looking at it in great detail. The fire is an old fashioned electric effort with moulded, coloured logs and mounted in a plain rectangular timber frame. The tiling to the front of the fire unit is lumpen and misshapen as if forced up and displaced from below. This seems to worsen as I look at it, the subfloor now seemingly stretched and exposed, the tiles further buckled and broken. The damage is not limited to the tiling and I notice, to my absolute dismay, that one of our front windows is cracked in by the frame. My mother and I, both deeply upset, hug each other, lamenting the costs of this unforeseen damage- 

I deduce that this ongoing damage has been caused by something acting from the outside of the house. My two brothers and I go out into the (dark) street to investigate. To our left, a few houses down from us, a 'gas' van is parked, visible in the orange glow of the streetlights. The van's back door (to access the trade materials) is sitting open. A heavy-ish guy in his mid-50s – he has tousled hair and sports thick NHS-style glasses and wears sturdy, reflective clothing – wanders over to it and my brothers and I take turns to remonstrate with him. It transpires he has been doing some “essential” gas supply upgrade in the area, drilling and adding extra pipework, and we are outraged that he is doing so without (at least) notifying the homeowners. I call the guy “a f**king moron!” to his face – of course, I instantly regret it, knowing that by insulting him I have weakened our case against him. He just takes of his glasses and smirks. This attittude of quiet amusement further fires the flames of my wrath and I bristle with intense frustration-