Tuesday, 24 January 2012

Interior Spaces

I’ve grumbled a bit here and there about the slipping production values in my dreams of late. I know it’s free entertainment, but even so, whoever lays mine on used to do some pretty good stuff: there’d be temples, stained glass and incense, therioform mountain ranges, dark and sooty mediaeval cities, spirit people and what-not, but it seems over the last few years the dream-works have given up trying. If I remember my dreams at all, they are usually washed-out grey or sepia tinted fragments, banal as Tuesday morning, a load o summat an nowt, as my grandma would say, scanning the listings for a dull evening’s telly. Last night’s was a good one, though.

I have taken a job in Crete, λέει, where I am living in a vast house. To cross the open-plan rooms requires several minutes, and depending on which floor I’m occupying, answering the door could be quite an expedition. It’s as if I’m the sole occupant of a major branch of John Lewis. So, as I’m exploring the levels and expanses of contemporary furniture, showroom after showroom of it, I come across a naked young man asleep on one of my umpteen billion sofas. I approach him with commingled curiosity, apprehension and lust, and as I do so he awakes and stands up. The lust doesn’t last long; deucedly plain lad, unfortunately, and as you do in dreams, I note with disappointment but no particular surprise that although he has balls, he has no cock.

The boy has some connection with the previous tenant of the mega-house and their business is clearly unresolved, as now another young man shows up, leading a posse of dangerous-looking local lads. Boys one and two hold a brief colloquy before the gang contrive to draw curtains between me and the first boy, and behind them set about him with clubs. The curtains are blown dramatically upwards and apart just as the lad’s head is smashed like a coconut.

A group of local women arrives. One of them rouses me as I am dozing on one of my day-beds - I have trillions - and tells me I am welcome to visit anyone in the town. I should call on Kyría [= Mrs] So-and-So, whose speciality is some delicious confection made with cherries. I am given to understand that everyone is hospitable and generous, but to use that irritating cliché, there’s the Elephant in the Room. It is left unspoken, but it seems that getting shut of the corpse of that that poor, broken, dickless boy is to be entirely my affair.

So how about that?


“Men get into trouble by taking their visions and hallucinations too seriously.” – H. L. Mencken


Bo said...

What a raw dream. What are your associations for the various elements?

Vilges Suola said...

I don't know really. Finding that I inhabit vast spaces, room after room of luxurious decor, is a common enough theme, and being responsible for a corpse has cropped up before, although usually it's me that's the killer. I have felt for a long time that I live far too small and timid a life, working way under full capacity socially, intellectually and sexually, and some of this stuff about the unexplored spaces and the dead and the dickless might be connected with that feeling. Well, maybe.

Alan Tait said...

Well if it's any consolation, your dreams seem like fairly good art-house movies.

Mine are just pathetic. Two nights ago I was getting round Glasgow by paraglider. No story, no characters, no dialogue, just an inaccurate aerial view of Charing Cross. If you post a few more, I'll try and dream them instead of mine.

Is your new photo (boy, tree, dark theatrical space) from a dream, by the way?

Vilges Suola said...

@Alan, most of mine are pretty banal - this one stood out.

The photo in the header is a set for 'Waiting for Godot'. Pretty dream like, I suppose.

Sarah said...

Like you, I often find myself wandering through complicated interiors, or courtyard after courtyard of some structure not unlike the bastard offspring of Naples and Gormenghast.
Two things seem to enhance the quality of my dreams. The first is my bedtime reading or viewing, or picture-gazing. I was looking at a book of antique quilts lately and spent some of that night wading in a shallow sea of different textures and colours.
The second trick is not having to get up in the morning. I can recommend it.
Having a radio alarm does sometimes result in dreaming confrontations with politicians who are in fact appearing on the Today programme... not a good start to the day even if you win the argument.

Vilges Suola said...

Yes, I too definitely dream more on days when I'm not working.

maria verivaki said...

i never used to remember my dreams, until just recently, which is a shame because i think they would make the most imaginative stories i could ever write
just last night, i was in burundi attending the funeral of a relative who hadn't died quite yet - he was getting shorter and it was agreed that he was on his last legs, so the funeral was held early (weird, i know, but what a good story...)

Vilges Suola said...

Weird. Did you ever have a relative who had a protracted illness before dying?


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