Shatter Your Illusions of Love

‘”I am going to get fat and lazy in Hill House,” Theodora went on. Her insistence in Naming Hill House troubled Eleanor. It’s as though she were saying it deliberately, Eleanor thought, telling the house she knows its name, calling the house to tell it where we are; is it bravado? “Hill House, Hill House, House House,” Theodora said softly, and smiled across at Eleanor.’

In 1959 Shirley Jackson published ‘The Haunting of Hill House.’ Stephen King called the novel ‘As nearly a perfect haunted-house tale as I have ever read.’ This quotation sits on the cover of the Penguin Modern Classics paperback, is placed above the title (and Mrs Jackson’s name) so it’s obvious the publisher was happy with it, and why.

The first paragraph of the book was noteworthy for King.

Discussing the haunted house tale in ‘Danse Macabre’, he suggests the house requires an ‘historical context’ – a dark history – and that ‘Jackson establishes it immediately in the first paragraph of her novel, stating her tale’s argument in lovely, dreamlike prose.’ He then quotes the famous opening:

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly; floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

He says of the opening that

Analysis of such a paragraph is a mean and shoddy trick, and should almost always be left to college and university professors, those lepidopterists of literature who, when they see a lovely butterfly, feel that they should immediately run into the field with a net, catch it, kill it with a drop of chloroform, and mount it on a white board and put it in a glass case, where it will still be beautiful…and just as dead as horseshit.

He then goes on to offer some analysis of the opening paragraph. (He promises not to kill it or mount it, only to stun it a little before letting it fly on. I’m not sure he’s right to worry as much. I’ll change his metaphor to an analogy: what type of person doesn’t want to know how the magic-trick was done? What type does?)

Stephen King says he has neither the skill nor the inclination to offer a full analysis of Jackson’s dreamy opening. I’ll believe him about the inclination bit. Stephen King is a magician. I’d bet he knows exactly what Jackson’s opening does – but doesn’t want to reveal another magician’s secret.

Some think knowing the trick ruins the mystery. That depends on whether you prefer knowledge or mysteries. I’m not a magician, I always want to know how the trick is done, and I think knowing increases the beauty of it.

What does King say about it specifically? What he says about it first of all is interesting in itself. He states that

It begins by suggesting that Hill House is a live organism; tells us that this live organism does not exist under conditions of absolute reality; that because (although here I should add that I may be making an induction Mrs Jackson did not intend) it does not dream, it is not sane.

Does the opening ‘suggest’ Hill House is a live organism? I suppose it does, but ‘suggest’ is right. All humans are live organisms, and the first sentence tells us that to remain sane, live organisms need to dream. By ‘dream’ Jackson could well mean ‘fantasise’ or even ‘hallucinate’ as both these describe ways the mind of a live organism, a human one at any rate, can escape reality and therefore maintain sanity.

However I am unconvinced the first sentence actually refers to Hill House. It seems like it does, given the sentence which follows, but one needs to try to explain Jackson’s words ‘not sane’ to make this idea work.

Could she be telling nothing but the plain truth when describing Hill House as ‘not sane’? A house is indeed ‘not sane’ because it is a house, an object, not a live organism. Though something is ‘not sane’ it does not follow at all it must therefore be ‘insane’ – just as if something did not ‘turn left’ does not mean it necessarily ‘turned right’.

I think Jackson added ‘not sane’ into her description of Hill House to link it in the minds of readers with the first sentence, and could do so because to describe the house this way is still to tell the truth about it. If readers take it to mean something else then good: that might be the point – but Jackson hasn’t lied to anyone.

Once this piece of clever misdirection is complete, Jackson can then tell the plain truth about the house in more detail, knowing the reader will not be reading it as the plain truth. (Remove ‘not sane’ – therebye uncoupling it from the first sentence. Does it sound quite so creepy?)

Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly; floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

The ending sounds spooky, but it would be true of anyone who walked around a house by themselves. They would walk alone if that house wasn’t haunted.

In other words the first paragraph disorientates the reader; allows the reader to think the ‘problem’ – or the ‘issue’ as we might now say – lies with house, when the problem might really be with one of the characters about to pay Hill House a visit…

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Fighting the Inevitable

Many of us thinks that the ‘I’ they use to refer to themselves is separate from their physical self, and perhaps takes the form of a little person who sits inside our head, looking through our eyes the way Captain Kirk looks through the screens of the Enterprise. Those who think this way are likely to be mistaken, but the mistake is a common one, and many people make it without knowing they’re doing so.

Many persons are more religious than they realise.

A person said to me recently, on the topic of what some call ‘gender reassignment’, that some of us are ‘born into the wrong body’. This is a common expression, used by persons to explain what causes a person to want to change their gender.

The idea that a person can be ‘born into the wrong body’ is physically, chemically, biologically, and philosophically illiterate. What makes the expression an interesting one has nothing to do with the ‘truth’ it contains, but rather what the expression presupposes.

The following isn’t perfect, but it will do. Imagine a factory, in which bodies are on a conveyor belt: robot arms insert the conscious mind into each head. Now imagine a fault in the celestial software which makes the belt lurch forward, throwing the bodies out of synch to their mind-inserting arms, and what is presupposed becomes clear.

Persons are not ‘born into’ their bodies at all. It is impossible, therefore, for a person to have been born into the wrong body. Every person is as nature ‘intended’.

(I marked the word out because I’m aware that ‘intention’ presupposes agency – which is obviously nonsense – but the expression is another good example of how our thoughts are saturated with the idea that consciousness can exist without the brain.)

Under ‘born into the wrong body’ is that very idea – that consciousness can exist without the brain.

What is under that idea?

Under that is the belief that we survive death.

And what is under that?

Under that, motivating everything else, is the fear of death.

Could it be that, a person can make a ‘throwaway’ remark on a topic about gender surgery, and what motivates it is a fear of death – something we weren’t talking about?

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A Different Coast

It is the dead of night

 The long dead look out towards

The new dead

Walking towards them

There is a soft heartbeat as the dead embrace

Those who are long dead

And those of the new dead

Walking towards them

They cry and they kiss

As they meet again

For the first and last time.

“Meeting” – Harold Pinter

 

 

I told my wife I was going for my usual stroll. My usual stroll was through the park and along through the cemetery, and then I’d loop back again and come back. The particulars of the walk are unimportant. I went that way because I liked the peace in the cemetery. There was never more than a few living people in there at one time, and it was easy to get some quiet.

Occasionally I would read some of the graves. I would read the names on the headstones and any inscription. I like history. Acknowledging those who lived here, long before I existed, seemed a correct thing to do for some reason. I’m unsure exactly why. I suppose those who are buried are the lucky ones – much luckier than those who are cremated. A headstone is a blue-plaque for the unknown.

One time, on my usual stroll, I stopped and sat on one of those slatted wooden benches they have in the cemetery. It’s got a brass plate screwed into it which says ‘In loving memory of William Brown – a real gentleman’, though I’ve never been able to find his headstone anywhere.

I sat down and took a sip from the flask that I carry. (A small, silver one – a present to myself – which slips in and out of the old inside pocket with agreeable ease and frequency.) I looked about, taking a minute. Then I saw something which held my attention. I was sat close to a small shed – not much more than a wooden box. It looked like a place where a gardener would keep some tools, or a wheelbarrow or something. Leaning against the side of it was one of those tall bins on wheels. What caught my attention was the message daubed on the front of it. The message was ‘No Hot Ashes’. I looked at it for several seconds, as if I was trying to decipher what it meant. I realised soon enough what it meant wasn’t what bothered me about it. That there was a rule which said a bin should have no hot ashes placed in it was clear enough. What bothered me was lurking just under the surface of my thoughts, and didn’t want to be uncovered. I know myself well enough. That message made me change my usual stroll for another one. I didn’t want to see that message again.

From then on, I took a different route for my stroll. I’d still go through the park, but rather than going through the cemetery, I’d turn towards the shops, dart along a footpath which lead to a set of steep steps up to the cliffs. There was a splendid walk to be had along the cliffs, so long as you could manage the climb up and I suppose not everyone could manage it. A quick snort from the old flask usually gave the required boost. It was worth the effort for the view.

Along the cliff-path were more of those slatted benches where you could sit and admire the view out to sea. The water would carry you out to where it touched the sky if you allowed it to. The view was as clear as that. You know what people say, that on a clear day you can ‘see forever’? The view was a bit like that.

I was sat on a bench, wondering how far the horizon was, when a man appeared at the top of the steep steps and strolled over. He sat down and caught his breath while dabbing his brow with a black handkerchief. I offered a polite nod – just an acknowledgment. It seemed the correct thing to do. Once he had his breath – and I knew he was going to do this – he decided to speak.

‘Takes it out of you,’ he said, slapping his lap. ‘Worth it, though. Look at that view.’ He looked at me. ‘Worth it?’

‘Always,’ I replied. ‘Better when it’s quiet like this, though: no dogs barking or running about the place.’

‘Absolutely,’ he said, looking out to sea again. He pinched his nose, sniffed, and slapped his lap. ‘Right,’ he said, standing up, ‘enjoy your day.’ With that he got up and carried on along the path which dipped slightly and within a moment or so took him out of view.

He was friendly enough, I thought. I admired the view for a few minutes longer, then set off the way the man had gone. I knew well enough where the path I was on would lead. It dropped slightly, stayed alongside the cliff-edge for about 100 yards, then turned away from the edge and dropped, steeper still, down to the normal world of traffic and shops and noise.

That night I woke up some time in the early hours, sweating a little, and trying to catch my breath. I rolled out of bed in something of a panic, and my wife woke up and wanted to know why I was kneeling on the floor, gasping for breath like I’d just run a marathon.

 

*

I explained I’d had a nightmare, that it was nothing to worry about. She persisted in telling me to get ‘looked at’ and make sure everything was okay. She acted worried, though for someone worried was calmed easily. I didn’t hold that against her – why should I? I’m not a romantic in any sense of the word.

She looked up something called ‘sleep apnea’ online and decided to become an expert in this topic, thinking that my little ‘moment’ of breathlessness was due to this condition. I pointed out that, if that were the case, then moments of breathlessness would happen most nights, but it had only happened once. She did agree I had a point.

I decided to get out the house and go for more walks. My wife didn’t want to come along but agreed exercise was a very good idea. It was always worth it.

The next afternoon I ventured out again and, after stopping at the newsagent to buy a discreet bottle of top-up for the old inside pocket, went up to the cliff-path by the way I had come down the other day. It wasn’t as steep as the steps, but still hard work; as always, the view was worth it.

The man I had spoken to briefly was sat on another bench, staring out to sea. I was huffing and puffing a bit, so decided to sit down next to him. He didn’t acknowledge me, though: he was concentrating on the horizon.

‘Dammed fine view, that,’ I said. Then he looked at me, expressionless, like he was in a trance brought on by the horizon.

‘Could I have a quick drop of the old you know what?’

‘Sorry?’ I said.

He nodded in the direction of my jacket.

I twigged what he was getting at. ‘Oh, right – yes!’ I took out the silver flask, unscrewed it, and offered it over. He took two good swallows then handed it back.

I quickly put it back in the old inside pocket.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

I nodded as if to say you’re welcome and was about to introduce myself – you know the thing, offer out the old fashioned handshake – when he got up, and quite calmly walked toward the edge and then walked right over without looking back.

For a moment I had to question if I’d seen what I knew I had seen. You know how your brain registers and event, but if it’s unexpected, the mind sort of suffers a delay in recognition? I’m no expert, but it was something like that. I hurried over to the edge and got as close as felt safe and peered over. It was a few perhaps a hundred feet to the rocks and water below, but there was no sign of him. He’d been wearing red trousers, which I thought would have been easy to spot, but there was nothing. My heart was thudding and I looked around quickly, wondering if anyone else saw him go over, but there was nobody about. I couldn’t hear even a dog barking in the distance.

I grabbed at my coat pockets, in a panic to find a phone, but there was only the familiar lump of the flask. I thought I had my phone with me, but obviously not. I was thinking I’m supposed to be phoning the bloody coastguard or someone now, but the way he calmly stepped over the edge made me think all was well about things. That might sound weird, but he was so calm about it.

I thought then that calling the coastguard was a waste of time in any case, because nobody hitting those rocks would survive. What would they do? There was actually a little bit of beach down below a person could get to, but the geography made things difficult, and it was a twenty minute walk to get back down the steps, then take the scenic route almost out of town before doubling back along the main beach; and even then things were fiddly because there was a walk across the rocks to get to the bit of hidden beach down below. I’d been all over the rock when I was a kid, but that was some time ago.

I didn’t know what to do. If I ignored it, I couldn’t tell my wife, but If I didn’t ignore it, I’d have to tell her. I decided I’d call the police and report the incident, explaining I didn’t call earlier because I had no phone on me at the time. This felt like a solid plan, so I made for home.

 

*

I told my wife excitedly what had happened. I left out no details. I’d seen this chap before, and that this time – after no more than a ‘hello’ – he just got up of the bench and walked calmly off the cliff edge! I told her I’d seen nothing like it and that he didn’t even hesitate – not for a moment did he hesitate! I thought she’d be somewhat more excited, but she just smiled and said, how terrible it was that someone would do that.

‘I’m going to call the police,’ I said.

My wife gave me one of those ‘good-for-you’ play punches in the shoulder and passed me the phone. I called them, but not on the emergency line, just the normal ‘report something’ line: the same line people use for reporting cats up trees, noisy neighbours or a stolen car or something. It wasn’t long before I was through all the ‘push one for whatever’ business. I started by telling them my name and address, and then got down to it. The police person didn’t seem in any kind of hurry. It was an older sounding voice, possibly male.

‘And they didn’t say anything? The man just jumped off the cliff?’

‘That’s right. Just like I said: we said hello, then he just got up and walked off. He didn’t jump, though. He just walked off. He just calmly stepped off the edge.’

‘And nobody else saw this? There was nobody around from whom you could have borrowed a phone. It was an emergency, after all.’

‘I get that but if there was nobody there, then what could I do?’

‘Are you sure there was nobody else there? Think about it. Are you sure there was nobody else there? Maybe you just didn’t see them?’

‘No,’ I said – although it made me think for a moment – ‘there was nobody else there. I would remember seeing them.’

There was just breathing down the line for a moment or two. Then the voice spoke again.

‘Maybe there was somebody else there, but you just forgot you spoke to them for five minutes?’

This made me scared for some reason. Who was on the other end of the phone?

‘Don’t be scared – just think about things. How did he know you had that flask on you?’

I started to feel a little dizzy, and the hairs on my arms were standing up. I quickly looked about but my wife had disappeared.

‘How do you know that?’ I asked. ‘How could you – ‘

‘Go back and do it again. But this time pay more attention.’

The line went dead.

 

*

I bought two small bottle of the old top-up at the shops and started up the steps. I’d walked the steps plenty of times but they were heavy going. The air was heavier this time. By the time I was at the top I was out of breath and needed to take a minute. I decided to sit for a minute and that’s when I saw him sat on the bench.

It was the same man, no mistake. He even wore the same red trousers. It was obviously him, but at the same time it obviously couldn’t have been him. I walked over and sat down. He didn’t look at me.

I got my breath a little more and spoke, but I didn’t look at him. For some reason I couldn’t do that yet.

‘Takes it out of you,’ I said. ‘Worth it, though. Look at that view.’ I looked at him then, but wished I hadn’t.

He was smiling, but had tears in his eyes.

‘I suppose you prefer things when they’re quite?’

‘Yes,’ I said. That’s all that came out.

He kept smiling and turned towards the water. ‘Who’s go is it? It’s your turn.’

I knew he was right.

The weather was good, there were no clouds in the sky and the sea was calm all the way to the horizon. There was a breeze, but the air was still warm.

You can’t fight the tide, you can only ride it as best you can, but there’s no stopping it. I stood up and left him on the bench and walked towards the edge, feeling the breeze and the warmth on my face. I peered over the edge and saw the waves breaking against the rocks far below. As the rocks rushed closer I knew I was smiling.

This never hurt for long.

Oh My God It’s SO Unfair!

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anesthetic from which none come round

  • Philip Larkin ‘Aubade’

 

I’m unsure Larkin was right about what we fear. On the surface of things he seems to get to root of the matter. The idea of not existing is a troubling one. But are there ways of thinking about not existing which might make the idea bearable?

One of the (so-called) ‘new’ atheists, Sam Harris, said – and was quite amusing when he said it – that if a person really can’t imagine the world without them in it, then it must be just from want of trying. There were a few laughs from the audience. In the example I’m thinking of Harris suggested the crowd think about the city of Paris, and how Paris was getting along just fine without anyone from the crowd in it. He certainly had a point. Another way of putting it is to ask people to think about the world before they were born. The person’s town or village was getting along happily, and so were the cities and other people in it. It seems correct to think about matters in this way, because the world was getting along nicely before you were born, but thinking this way doesn’t quite dissolve the problem.

The idea of not existing could mean several things to a person. That you can even have the idea means you exist. So it appears – after thinking about Paris and the years before you were born – that the problem isn’t quite a world in which you don’t exist, the problem is more a world in which you don’t exist after having existed. That seems to be closer to the point, and it’s that idea which needs examining.

Larkin was an atheist, and the last four lines are odd ones for an atheist to have written. The last line – especially the word ‘anesthetic’ – carries a thought which could have been pushed further. An atheist might fear what Larkin describes, but an atheist also knows he won’t actually experience being dead, which means there is no reason to have this fear: if you have fear you know you don’t need to have, then you are choosing to have it because you prefer having it. I mean to say, why fear something you know you will never experience? This ‘fear’ of something you won’t and can’t experience, then, might not be ‘our’ problem. It’s more likely that the real point is as I described it, or as the late Christopher Hitchens put it ‘You get tapped on the shoulder and told, “the party’s going on without you, and you have to leave.”’

(He then amusingly offered the religious version for comparison: ‘The party’s going on forever, and you can’t leave.’) But why do we care if we won’t know we’ve left? It doesn’t make sense to ‘fear’ not being at the party because we know we won’t know we’re not there: we won’t know we’re missing anything. Is what Larkin calls ‘fear’ really a form of cheap resentment, a type of childish foot-stamping? Is the ‘fear’ an expression from a part of the mind which hasn’t grown up? One can easily imagine an irritated child having a little tantrum ‘Oh my God it’s so unfair! when told that playtime’s over.

To ask a person ’Do you believe in God’ could get you any number of responses, though a common one is the one which says ‘Well, I don’t believe in God but I do believe in something. I don’t think this (motions to surroundings) is the end.’ It’s a barely disguised way of saying ‘I don’t like the idea of death, so have told myself we don’t die.’ Larkin’s fourth line is true of all religions. I don’t know any religion which says the universe was created by a loving god who answers prayers and what not, yet has designed things so that – although he loves you while you are here – death is the end. Such a religion wouldn’t catch on.

All religions are predicated on the survival of death. Licensing that idea, allowing it to be reinforced through groupthink (or ‘worship’ if you really must), is what you get in return for your critical faculties, money and obedience. Yet if Larkin’s ‘fear’ is a form of intellectualised, disguised tantrum, then it’s certainly true that atheism is not an automatically superior worldview to the religious one. One could say of the atheist that he isn’t confusing what he believes is true with what he hopes is true, but doing that, and on its own, might not make you the full grown up.

Is there a difference between knowing you are going to die and accepting it?

How to Make a Bacon Sandwich

Perfection, as Marco Pierre White once said, is just a matter of doing several little things well. He would know. The chap was the first Englishman to win three Michelin stars, and when he won his third, he was the youngest Chef – of any nationality – to do so. I would take his advice on almost any culinary question, but not on the humble bacon sandwich. I am the expert on this one.

Perfection starts, obviously, with the bacon. The stuff which is sold in the supermarkets these days – all packed in plastic trays and sealed with yet more plastic – is not bacon. It is a grotesque imitation of bacon. This strange substance looks like bacon, but that is where the similarities end. This substance is sliced wafer-thin – so thin it is almost transparent – and is packed with additives and salty water. So bloated with fluid is this rubbish, that if you attempt to fry it you find the meat – if it can be called that – is boiling in liquid within seconds of hitting the frying pan. It sloshes about in a cloudy broth which slowly burns and bubbles away, leaving a curly, burnt mess. The pan is left with rust coloured sticky bits stuck to the bottom. If you attempt to grill this sort of “packed for convenience” junk, it curls up yet again, making it difficult to cook evenly, and shrinks to a tenth of its original size if you cook it either way.

Do the supermarkets sell this rubbish this way because we want it or force it upon us, knowing we will soon forget what came before? Real bacon – at the very least – must be sold loose. Before the bacon sandwich can be attempted, one needs to find either a decent supermarket or a proper Butcher. The Butcher is the better option.

The only cut worthy of the bacon sandwich is middle – smoked middle. The sandwich begins by grappling with the meat.

The whole slab of smoked middle must be taken in hand, and a knife inserted into the “joint” between middle and streaky. Saw upwards, separating the two. Then, the bacon must be laid across the grill-pan. This is done on a “one for you, one for me” basis. This is to say, alternate between a middle piece and a streaky piece. This is not about being even, but a requirement for the sandwich. Middle has the most meat, streaky the majority of the fat. Fat is a better carrier of flavour than meat, but meat makes the weight. Both are necessary. Place under a hot grill, but not too close to the flame. (Never cook bacon using one of those horrid, curly electric-bar grills. Gas only.)

As the bacon grills you will notice it hardly shrinks, retains its shape, and maybe only the rind will curl. (The rind needs special attention and will be mentioned later.)

Now is the time to prepare the bread. A “medium sliced white” will never do. For perfection – as Marco understands the word – a seeded and unsliced bloomer is the only choice. These loaves are fatter in the middle than the ends, and both slices for the sandwich need to be roughly the same size, so cut the loaf just shy of half way, and discard the smaller half. Then, cut two thick slices. As you do this, the poppy seeds from the bloomer will fall onto the plate or chopping board. Do not worry about this. They will be taken care of.

Next comes the butter. Goat’s butter is better because it has a creamier taste, and is slightly smoother. Whichever butter you choose, you had better have researched the saltiness of the smoked middle against the saltiness of the butter, and balanced accordingly. Butter the bread right to the edges, leaving no crumb without its coating; then, flip the slices upside down and pick up all the loose poppy seeds by blotting on the chopping board or plate. Now, check the bacon.

There should be a slight curl and shrinkage to the rashers, but nothing too much. They should still look about the same size as they did when you popped them under the grill. However, you should see clear bubbles of fat dancing upon the surface. These are more obvious upon the white fat than the red meat, but should be noticed. When these clear bubbles have a red or rust coloured crust, turn the bacon.

The second side takes much less time than the first, so you must stay close. Also, the cooked second side looks different from the first. It doesn’t bubble or colour in the same way. When you are convinced the second side is done, then the rind requires your attention.

The garbage which is sold in the plastic packets tends to have no rind. It is removed thanks to something to do with “health”. The rind is one of the best bits about a bacon sandwich, and needs to be loved. This is what you do. Take the bacon from the grill – you must move quickly – and place on a plate. Pick the rasher up and peel the rind by tearing at an end. This takes skill because we do not want to rip the meat. If you have enough delicacy, you will be left with a meaty rubber-band dangling from your fingers. Eat this straight away. Do this with all the rashers. If you do not burn your fingers you have been too slow, but the sandwich might still be saved.

Place the rashers on one piece of buttered bread, piling them up. Put the second piece of bread on top, and leave for a second. The heat from the bacon will melt the Goat’s butter.

During this interlude, go to the fridge and pull out the cold milk. Pour yourself a glass. Then, attack the sandwich with all the ferocity you can muster. The fresh bread will give; the meaty bacon will give (remember you have already consumed the rind. This prevents tugging too hard and ripping the bread. Think of the problems offered by a steak sandwich and you’ll get the idea.)

When the sandwich is gone, slug the milk down in no more than two gulps. At this stage, cigarettes are optional.

Dream Sketch Four

A man with no eyes, blinded and with but one arm is stood in front of me. A voice says he ‘used to be a tennis player.’ Next, I’m looking at him in profile and his eyes – which are now there – are bulging out of his head, dangerously far, but they are mis-shapen, like they have been battered square. Covering his eyes are large plastic protectors which are sealed onto his face – like bulbous goggles – I get the sense that this is because infection or damage could happen easily. On closer inspection I can see the eyes are almost hanging out and there are hundreds of wires / cables attached to the back of the eye, vanishing into the back of his head. I think they are flat wires, with something printed on them.

The scene changes and I am stood at the bottom of Hill Road , looking up to where the bend is by the church. At the top is a woman who seems to be evil, or someone to be scared of at any rate. She is shouting something down to me – and maybe unseen others – but I can’t make it out. Next, I am in the front garden of 22 Hill Road . I seem to have a disability of some kind which prevents me from hiding from the woman who is making her way down the hill. I look about in panic – what can I do, where can I go? The woman is a composite – part of her is the actress from V and Homeland.

Next I am crouched on the path which ran along the side of the house, close up against the wall as the woman arrived at the garden gate and looks down at me. I shout something at her – ‘You can’t keep kids in..(not sure)..it’s a subjection!” I know for sure I shout ‘It’s a subjection!’

By this time I am aware I am dreaming and decide to wake up because there is a real sense of fear in respect to this woman and whatever is planned I’m not hanging around for it, so I wake myself up to escape.

I used to live in the house when I was a child, but the rest I have no clue about. The actress from the show V is the lead disguised reptile: an attractive woman on the outside but a lizard underneath the surface.

Dream Sketch Three

A wasteland. The city was destroyed; buildings were ruins and the streets were deserted, though some of the neon signs from the bars and the clubs were still working, the place looked like a modern version of London during the blitz. I was aware of myself being there, feeling I was the only person around, the only one alive.

      There were other beings around this city, though. They were the un-dead, a mix of Vampire and Zombie, and they were aware of me. I was hiding, though not feeling scared. I ran along one street and darted into a small shop, locked the door behind me, leaving two monsters outside looking in. I was calm because I knew they would not be able to break in, maybe they were physically weak? I don’t know. Some time passed and then the two of them entered the room by morphing through the door, just passed through solid matter and stood there asking “What do you think of that?”

   I was impressed and scared at the same time, but the humanoid creatures appeared rather friendly and wanted to turn me into one of them, something I was quite looking forward to, actually. It seemed to be the natural thing to do under the circumstances. The destruction around us was caused by those who were still human. They were on the other side of the world, living in Asia; and when turned, I wanted to take the war to them and battle it out. The things I was with refused to let me, seeming to think that sort of action was not worth taking.

     I was shown the trick of passing through solid matter. One of the creatures held my hand, and I touched a wooden door, painted white, with a metal bolt screwed to it. My fingers passed into wood, as if I was dipping my fingers into white paint, I could feel the tiniest resistance, before it gave way. The sensation was like passing a hot iron through a ball of solder, one feels solids for a moment, it then gives way and becomes liquid. My hand also passed through the metal bolts on the door. It gave the impression of being made of Mercury; it shimmered as my fingers passed through it. This trick only worked when I was holding the wrist of one female vamp/zombie, on my own, I couldn’t do it.

I haven’t a clue about this dream, what it might mean, or what motivated it. Bizarre.