Monday 30 December 2019

Walsharm


On a bus travelling at night. It doesn't seem that busy, or that there are many seats. I can really only picture myself seated and space around me. Obviously the driver is seated ahead of me (both of us on the left of the vehicle). 'Germs' by Acetone begins to play over the sound system. I am quite startled, and happily so, to hear this. It doesn't sound exactly like the recorded version, maybe a bit slower and without vocals? This is followed by 'Final Say', which again I recognise even if it does not sound quite like the studio recording. This is exciting for me, and I want to be sure to talk to the driver about the band-

We are back at the hotel(?) and I make a point of talking to the young driver in the bar. The environment here is not hugely different from the bus. It's quite dark and doesn't seem that busy. I don't recall the bar itself, but I think I have a pint of beer. The driver sits at a table and opens a small grey laptop. I stand to his back, to his right. After our initial talk he then introduces me to a girl he's talking to on Skype. Even though they are talking she only appears on the laptop screen in profile. He then chats more to her about things, including me. Is there something about a podcast and how that would be proof of...?-


I am with (the comic character) Marshal Law and we are infiltrating/have infiltrated some sort of criminal base or stronghold. I'm aware I have no weapon at all. We seem to be trapped (or hiding out) in a tight stairwell. The building is very plain, simple blockwork and plaster walls. Our pursuers wear sort of army green tight fitting gimp costumes (like S&M Norts from Rogue Trooper via Marshal Law's world). It is very tense as the troops close in on where we are hiding. I have to judge where they are coming from, listening intently and watching carefully for any shadows on the opposing wall that might betray their approach. The first comes from my right and I whip away his legs - the stair is sufficienty steep that I am practically at that height - dragging him down to Marshal Law who then dispenses him with a single shot. The next I slightly misjudge and he arrives from the left. Unfortunately his gun jams and, unable to fire shots, I quickly drag him down too. The third approaches from the right again and we dispose of him with ease-

I have a recollection of places being called K**tsville and Thaerum Thaelitz/Thaeritz(?)-

I have joined a crowd of gig goers - did they flood the stairwell and I have followed them out into the night streets? - and am walking with them. They are all sort of indie-emo types, dyed hair and dark, alternative clothing. I am wondering where Kay Emm is. I'm sure she'll let me know she's alright though neither of us has a phone. Am I walking up Bath Street in Glasgow, a bus stopped at the lights, but also aware the road is closed? The bus is also heading into town, against the natural flow of traffic-

Wednesday 25 December 2019

Epsmer


I was in the front lounge and was m****rbating. Lunch was called so I hastily finished and tidied myself and the mess up. I went through to the kitchen and sat at the table with my two brothers while my mother prepared lunch. Lunch was like Heinz Spaghetti but served in a soup bowl. My mother went off to answer the phone or something. I think I somehow managed to spill my bowl. While cleaning up I noticed a piece of spaghetti on the side of the bowl was moving. It looked sort of spaghetti-like but more transparent and with a black head. It was also wriggling horribly. I was screaming to my brothers. Then from the bowl sprang what looked like this-


It looked similar but was all smeared in tomato sauce. It was as if somehow my sperm had mingled with the spaghetti and created this living thing. Completely horrible. As it crawled in at the kitchen cupboard kickboards we eventually, thanks to the fact that it was slow moving, stamped the thing into a spaghetti drenched mass. All it was made of was pasta and sauce. Just as I'd cleaned this up another thing flew out from my bowl. It made it over to the corner cupboard (which was open) in the kitchen. I got some kitchen towel and went over and just grabbed its tail as it tried to slither in. I lost my grip and it slithered away in amongst the tins. I thumped the worksurface in frustration, but also in hope it might attract the creature. I saw some prawns in a polystyrene packet being moved and put my hands in and grabbed. I got it! I was just wrapping it up and putting it in the kitchen bin as my mother came back in and asked what was going on. I said that, “it was nothing.”-

Tuesday 17 December 2019

Toninelf


At some sort of function in a smart house. Very clean and crisp feeling, nice green-ish patterned wallpaper and lots of dark timber fittings and furniture. Daytime. Soft light. A few of us – think we're in suits? - are talking. Ahead of me the room opens directly into a corridor and immediately round the corner another group of men are gathered. In response to something – something I overhear? - I make a loud quip in a “I'm Gonna Git You Sucka!” style voice. As soon as I say it I (and those around me) realise it's deeply offensive. We walk out into the corridor/hall and I am faced by an older man. He looks slightly American Indian but with Chinese features too. He has long, straggly dark hair. I am VERY apologetic towards him and am nearly in tears-

I am sitting (in the same house environment) with Tim Burgess and a woman nicknamed 'Flower'. Tim is to my left and Flower is next to him. Tim's hair is short and unkempt, somewhat plastered to his scalp and face. We are talking. Tim is talking about how you cannot make an album if you are stoned all the time, mentioning that Ali (Campbell, from UB40, I think) made three records for him and they were all no good. At one point it looks like Tim and Flower are kissing, their faces are very close together (I can really only see the back of Tim's head). Tim then turns and seeing his profile he has a tiny, 1cm long (if that) cigarette/joint between his lips. It's as thin as a propelling pencil lead and is smoking at the end. He then offers me what looks like the shaft of a propelling pencil. It's hollow at one end and smoke is rising from it. The other end, which has what looks like a touchscreen pad on it is the same, only this is a brown substance that is also smouldering and crackling. I take a few hesitant sniffs of the smoke. Tim is encouraging me, saying it has acid in it. Has Flower collapsed or taken ill? In no panic at all Tim takes her to go upstairs. As he heads off with her I am talking about their third album, Up To Our Hips, and how to me it sounds like a record made by people who were stoned as opposed to, say, Dark Side Of The Moon, which is a record that sounds stoned in itself. I refer to the “washes of cymbol” and other such things-

I follow upstairs. I am concerned that I will begin hallucinating after inhaling. There is a big guy upstairs too, like the American Indian from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, and he sort of tails me about. Do I hear a strange, “wah wah!” noise from some bird, worried that my trip has begun? I decide to get my guitar, thinking that by playing that I will anchor myself should I start to hallucinate. There's a small sort of timber shelf and it has several plectrums on it, all in some sort of disrepair. Some are rounded, almost circular, some are cracked and in fragments. I am thinking I can take 2 of these as being at my Gran's(?) they're hardly used and mine anyway. I start to play (very well), getting great, raw guitar sounds with simple variations on the standard A-Chord fingering on the lower frets. Both my strumming hand and fretting hand seem to be making music almost independently. At one point I run the plectrum down my front – it scrapes (with a fantastic sound) down what looks like simple sack material, leaving a stream of water in its wake-

I am looking for Tim. I go into one room – are there two poeple in there? - and make my quiet excuses and leave. I enter the room next door and at the end of the corridor. Flower is lying on a bulky timber table and four or five people, including Tim, are standing around seemingly concerned for her well-being. Tim asks me to leave-

Wednesday 11 December 2019

Ladlackd


The setting was much like Blackadder Goes Forth - he had his moustache and Baldrick and Captain Darling were about too. I was there too, but not in the role of George. It was as if Largs railway station was at, say, one of the bridges over Charles Street or John Street. Positioned much like the Emm's house, except it face the rails, which were about 20 feet below in the darkness of the night. At first we were all inside and Baldrick was introducing us to some sort of dog/pet thing he had befriended. It ended up getting some tag meaning that, unknown to Blackadder, it would be left in charge on Wednesday (to much humourous consequence). Then we were standing outside and looking over the opposite side of the railway bridge into the darkness. I said something about the troops down below. Edmund and I went for the gag until I said, “startled” at which we all fell about laughing. Going back across to the station Captain Darling said something about, “maybe this time we'll keep to the script.” We all fell about laughing again-

Monday 2 December 2019

Ibbule


At home in the flat. In the living room, though the furniture does not correspond to reality. Hard to picture or recollect any of the furniture, be it existing or dreamt. I am strutting about aware I am wearing tracksuit trousers only, my top bare - I can see myself doing this. It feels like it is getting dark and it is raining, or has been, outside. Rain on the windows. 'Just When You're Thinkin' Things Over' by The Charlatans is playing on the stereo, the tumbling piano riffs quite apparent. I seem to be trying to apply lots of Bonjela in at my upper gums, putting lots on my finger and roughly massaging it it. I can almost see the inside of my mouth, my mind's eye helping my finger locate the ulcers(?). The Bonjela is in an (uncharacteristically) orange tube and the cap is discoloured - almost transparent - with a brown-ish sort of crust inside and around the groooves where it screws. I hear a knock, or more three steady taps as if with a single focussed finger, at the front door. Or I think it is the front door. Was it at the window? I exit the living room and go into the hall. The front door looks different to reality, with a few parallel grooves cut into the white painted wood running around the perimeter. I look through the spyhole and no one is there. I ask if anyone's there. Then the door begins to shift abruptly as if someone is trying to pull it open out into the close. I grab the handle to stop this. Conscious of the light creeping in from the close around the edge of the door. I am struggling to keep it closed, asking who it is-


At some sort of vegetable patch allotment with Pee EmmCeeCee. There are rows and rows of cabbages or such planted and the occasional taller hedge-like line with crude timber doors set into them for access. There is a tiger roaming around the area. It seems to be circling us and we are skipping over the vegetables in the hope of reaching one of the doors. We make it through just in time, the tiger beaten back as we close the door over. Is the tiger then in the enclosure with us? I take my shoulder bag and present it to the tiger. It grips it between its teeth and I simply flip it up into the air and it is thrown away from us. It lands in the vegetable patches and quickly rights itself, shaking its head as if dazed-