Drixhen

At the artist studio of Jimi Hendrix. He's working in a space very similar to those at my old University building, all exposed concrete structure and cold finishes. He's at the top of the stairs, the front of his unit space screened in part by a huge structural wall, and over to the right there are temporary partitions between his and the neighbouring unit. The ceiling is high and the large windows give plenty of (ideal North) light. Adding to this there is an upright collection (of something, canvasses?) covered in a grey, paint splattered sheet that provides him with further privacy. Hendrix, louche and hatted, works intently in behind all these screens. The studio, like others I have worked in, is rammed with random materials and half-finished/in progress works of art. Immediately to your left on entering, butting against the wall, is a metal storage cabinet covered in paintbrushes, stacks of cds and assorted art peripherals. Over to the right, between the upright canvasses and the partitions is a desk of some sort, also buried under a clutter of art materials. You have to squeeze past these two obstacles to see Jimi properly and enter the cramped workspace - there are small paintbrushes here, stored horizontally (presumably to dry out) and I am conscious that every time I squeeze past I am brushing against them with the back of my jacket, worried they'll fall (and potentially also start an avalanche of junk). He is listening to a cd and asks me to put on Bob Dylan-

He either asks for the specific track 'Unbreakable' or is the cd called 'The Unbreakable Bob Dylan'? I again make my way from the working space and check in the two stacks on top of the metal cabinet. There doesn't seem to be any Bob Dylan cds at all. I note that it is a (manageable) collection of his psychedelic contemporaries, that definitely includes Country Joe And The Fish. Some of the spines have 60's-ish psychedelic writing and patterns on them, too elaborate for me to read (though I kind of assume they are by Grateful Dead). Digging in deeper behind I am cheered to see a few dance/techno cd singles buried in under discarded sanding blocks or somesuch. I think I eventually take him back something and he changes the cd to whatever it is, some sort of chugging acoustic guitar music (we both know and like). Jimi talks about the piece he is working on and asks me to bring over the Rhino horn he has moulded to complete it – think in composition it's supposed to be crashing up through the floor of his painting/diorama. (There is also a painting of this horn, what looks at first like two (red) arms rising and clasping, but seems to take on a horn shape on second inspection.) I take the Rhino horn, stored as it is in a thick, semi-opaque polythene sheeting, over to him. There is a part of me that wonders if Jimi is on heroin (yet)? He tells me to take the mould and to show it to the comic artist Frank Quitely, saying something (jokingly) like, “go show that old … how he's leading me astray.” I agree to do so, edging my way carefully out of the unit and into the corridor-

As it is hollow I am wearing the Rhino horn mould on my left arm, brandishing it in the air like some strange alien limb. Worth noting it has a sort of unnatural claw-like protrusion about half way down and, as opposed to the material grey finish as it appeared in Jimi's studio, it is now covered in a brightly coloured camo-esque pattern. Being able to inspect it up close I also notice the finish looks more like Rhino skin, rough and mottled-

I am walking towards Frank Quitely and he is coming towards me. We seem to be in the same building, but in more of a cafeteria area, populated by small round tables with metal legs and a beech veneer finish. Before I am able to say a word he asks me "if I want to draw Doctor Who?" He explains something about how the comic rights are up for sale. I sit with him and our mutual artist friend Tee Cee (and one other?) at one of the tables. Frank then says something about looking at the art in the latest issue of Doctor Who as it is terrible. We talk about how we really shouldn't laugh at another artist's work and I am expecting the issue Tee Cee takes from his polythene bag to be just awful. It's actually, pretty good, a nice inky brush finish to the bold art over crisp flat colours. During this encounter I am aware of a woman and her teenage daughter at the table to our left – I recall having seen them seated earlier (somehow) and realise that they were negotiating to buy the comic rights (for 1 issue?) of Doctor Who too. I can't work out if the daughter has drawn an issue yet, nor if it is the one we are holding-

Winzzle

Something about my friend Enn Bee phoning me up and asking me about getting some chipboard so his father could do a loft conversion. I said that this was fine. The next time he phoned I said, though I had done nothing about it, that I had got it. He kind of assumed this also. So he started asking when I was going to go round and start doing the conversion for them. I hadn't realised they expected me to do it!-

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-

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.”-

Toninelf

https://www.mojo4music.com

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-

http://scriptshadow.net

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-

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-

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-

https://www.discoverwildlife.com

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-