Entering Sleep Mode....

The Velvet Underground - Venus In Furs

I am tired, I am weary

I could sleep for a thousand years

And so it is time for Eclectic Dreamzzz to take a well earned rest, with the year ahead being devoted to completing the 3 upcoming John Miller books. Sadly there's no time for Agent Rob to grab forty winks as he cracks the whip on 350+ pages of prized Miller Masterworks. Something just had to give, a jack of all blogs and a master of none, as they say....

Luis Bunuel said that if he were told he had twenty years to live and was asked how he wanted to live them, his reply would be: "Give me two hours a day of activity, and I'll take the other twenty-two in dreams - provided I can remember them."

Anyway, here's a grab bag top ten of the most popular blogs to keep you all dreamescaping....

Kasabian

Post Office

Clint Eastwood

June Sarpong

David Beckham

Barber shop

Demi Moore

Shaun Ryder

Largs

Kurt Cobain

Still, there ought to be some activity on the infamous Braw Blog here,

>> Braw Books

(The UndergRound Ups of the Year are here.... or there....)

Other than that, how about indulging in some of the brilliant Buckfast Lane here,

>> Life in the Buckfast Lane

A thousand dreams that would awake me

Different colors made of tears

Zodroyth

I am with an ill-defined a.n.other on a dark and dusty plain, the sky all brooding clouds, a chill wind blowing. All we can hear is the pained mewling of a cat, a horrible sound that makes one's blood run cold. Ahead of us, slowly emerging from the gloom, seems to be the hull of a boat supported on huge great timber stilts that are set into the sand(?) along either side - it sits up off the ground and has a flat bottom of sorts. It seems this pained screeching is coming from under the boat – it's taken us some time to home in on the source, a task that has caused us much anxiety. There in the darkness appears to be a cat, hunched down and near-invisible in the half light. Soon enough it emerges, a horrible one-eyed creature, its hair dirty and matted, and practically trundles (like K-9) along on its haunches, terrorising us-

I am at the (grand) home of Dee, one of the front-of-house security guards at my current work. I am in a large purple hued (living) room and using a fat Sharpie marker I am drawing sweeping curves on his sofa, trying to follow the line of the folds and creases in the blue patterned fabric. Quite what has possessed me to do this I do not know – Dee has a fearsome temper – and I simply stare at and examine the material, unsure if my act of (well-intentioned?) vandalism will remain undetected for long-

I meet Dee's (dreamescape) wife Penelope as she emerges from their (old fashioned, traditional) kitchen. She is very petite and mild mannered, her dark hair drawn back in a ponytail. She wears a very pretty light purple evening dress that plumps out from her hips down (a la Dorothy from Oz)-

Kellmdam

I am out for lunch with my old work colleague Gee Ess – indeed, this is if if we are still in our previous employ – and 2 a.n.others (of which one is yet to arrive). We are taking them to the Village Curry House in Tradeston, Glasgow and are to be seated outside at the rear of the restaurant (a dreamescape invention). This area is made from red monoblock paving that is square-ish in shape and curved at the furthest corners, a small raised section forming a boundary with the neighbouring residential property, their outdoor space being an exact mirror of the Village's. It is around 3pm and as expected the restaurant is quiet but the outdoor seating is messy and disorganised. Our table is right at the boundary and seats six, two each side and one at each end/head. Gee sits on the left with his back to the house and the other attendee – the fourth has still not arrived – sits diagonally across to the right, facing the neighbour's. It seems to be up to me to tidy up – although a mustachioed Indian man (the manager?) shuffles furniture around – and I use a long spoon-shaped carpet sweeper to suck up crumbs, made all the more difficult by the appliance's tiny brush tip (and my spending some time trying to figure out to access it to empty the contents)-

Our starter arrives, a large plate heaped with fat spicy sausages. Around this time several people emerge from the house across the back, chatting loudly and having a few drinks. Whether it's down to our proximity to the boundary or the alcohol being consumed (or not) an argument breaks out. One of the party people is the Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen, who sports long, near-shoulder length hair, swept back, and large aviator-style glasses – I remember thinking 'he's short sighted just like me'. He is accompanied by a dumpy lady with a black bob haircut. I say to Mads, “I'm sorry we didn't mean to upset the Swedish”, and admit to Gee shortly thereafter – following Mads kicking off – that I was simply trolling him-

Later Mads is up angry in my face, frustrated that I keep responding with “Yow” and “Nay”, and asking me, “what is that?!” (being my attempt at an Icelandic 'yes' and 'no'-

Gretanto

I seem to be undertaking pub quizzes – I'm looking for the third establishment on my list, having already won £25. Consulting my newspaper clipping I eventually locate the place and, after a bit of searching, the quiz (master). It's £10 entry and there's only ten questions. I do okay, my answers mostly overheard from the surrounding participants, two nearby older ladies in particular, the ninth question's answer is (the singer) Bjork, and the tenth being, “What happens (right) here on the thirtieth of August?” (which somehow, by a process of oblique mental filtering, I know)-

I win £9.01(?) and am quite happy if confused by the fact. The film actor Taron Egerton and his pal are not so pleased. They seat themselves at my table and endlessly labour their point, not satisfied that an “outsider” won (something). Taron softens his approach as I calmly make my point, but his friend on my right is harder to convince. Am I hoping to make the train with my former work colleague Ayy Gee or will she arrive and assist me in my argument?-

Anvlisa

I am sitting to the left of Ayy Cee, a lady co-co-worker. We're not in the same team, just on a 'hello' basis, and we are joking together. I have to check back on the previous year's registered cases. She talks about how hard I/we work and tells me that shares(?) in the company have gone up from 30 (somethings) to 80 (somethings), alluding to the fact we'll never see any benefit ourselves in spite of our toil – so why toil? The record book of the previous year is long and rectangular and, having taken off the clear plastic shrink-wrap, seems to consist of three lengthy biscuits separated by two intermediate layers of thick white cream. I peel off the first biscuit to open the book(?) and examine the figures-

Roprovd

I am at the house of my old primary and secondary school friend Arr Pee. In the dreamescape his family live in a huge isolated farmhouse-style home. At the time of my visit – am I nervous due to our teen falling-out? - it is the depths of winter and I keep getting recurring mental snapshots of the snow covered house, sitting cosy in the chilly landscape. Together with Arr's younger brother Gee we look at four new Christmas cushions they have bought, plump and square with a cut out of an animal in the fabric in the centre (or thereabouts) that allows you to see the fluffy internal stuffing – the cushion I am handling is of a deer or reindeer. This is quite unique and perplexing. Arr's father – again I am nervous of his opinion of me – is (to my surprise) most welcoming, inviting me out to join him/them while they walk their red setter dog. I politely decline, sensing absolutely no animosity towards me by this response-

Varjolta

I am in a large square garden space (in Partick?). There are lots of tall plants and it feels walled, if not oddly internal. The colours are drab and gloomy and in the centre of the shrubbery sits a long rectangular structure divided into eight equal squares. There are eight of these on each side of the object (hamster?). I know that this is some sort of graveyard and that these large squares are individual screens that serve as video playback for the deceased. The bottom left screen flicks into static life as I press a button to resurrect John Travolta. ('Is he actually dead?', is a constant thought from here on.) John's huge face fills the screen – he looks much as he does now, a round smiling face with a (dyed) goatee beard. He says something and the picture shifts to two (seeming) C-list English celebrities hugging jubilantly. I discern this footage is from some late (post-)career edition of Celebrity Big Brother. John almost seems to be addressing me directly-