Reverie

During my time on this rotating-rock I have discovered some things that I am 'quite' good at. One is my ability to always find a spot of water on the floor when only wearing socks. My most recent is the discovery and love of baking. But the longest standing is my capacity to dream weird yet wonderful dreams and then to remember them...

Lot's of people say they either don't dream at all or know they do but can't remember them. But there's no fading or vanishing of my dreams with the arrival of the morning sun. I once heard a theory that we shouldn't try to remember or analyse dreams as they're the brain trying to rid itself of useless information in order to to free up space for the important stuff. Like what?! Given the choice between remembering my latest dream-escape and my own mobile number I take the dream any time! But then I can't forget them even if I wanted to.

The same visual memory curse I have which recalls actors and movies they have stared in can also place dreams I had from years ago as a clear photograph. So I can see the paper dragon attacking the castle from the dream when I was four or the sand filled London from when I was nineteen as easily as the dream I had last night. I can also remember the dreamscapes that I would return to; the derelict, roofless museum with all the ivy; and the castle with the cinema and shopping centre; the small cafe by the bridge next to the waterfall that was full of cyclists; the Cornish fishing village beyond the forest with its trams, stuck in perpetual twilight!

As to why we dream one thought is that the mind uses the body's down-time as a data-processing-period. The brains churns through what has happened in the last few days, what's expected in the time to come and anything else that has currently settled in the subconscious. I can buy into that as I can often see threads leading back from my dreams to things which happened the day before. For example a spot of gardening being done while you know the rest of the country is probably watching England play football leads to a dream of a stadium full of  tropical plants (although where the zombies come into it I've no idea - the English team weren't that bad surely!)

But I tend to sneer at other dream theories as I do dream in colour, I can read words I see written down, I've died in my dreams but survived in the real world and I can sometimes control my dreams. I backed into someone's car in dreamland the other week, felt bad about it so rewound the experience and parked a second time. It also helps when I see a dream turning sour that I can try to turn the dream around or change it all together. It doesn't always work - the stadium zombies got me no matter what I tried! (I really hate football!)

But the best part of my dream-escapes comes from one simple equation:

A vivid dreamer  +  A flying dream  =  Greatest experience ever!

Forget virtual reality! Forget flight simulators! This is the closest thing you'll get to being Superman! It's only happened once or twice but it was enough. As I settle on my pillow and let reality wash away I wish that "Tonight I'll fly once more..."

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Sidekick

Yours to command

As foes are fought

Your helping hand

When 'er distraught

But "barful strife"

What makes me frown

My place in life 

- Along yet down

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Leitmotif

*Music plays with a quiet but firm start, slowly rising in tempo and volume and ending in three sharp cords*

Alright?

Wouldn’t life be excellent if it came with a soundtrack? I know you can already get a nice playlist going of your favourite songs. Joggers, runners and those of a general ‘Keep Fit’ nature will probably have an iPod crammed with suitable tracks personally selected to help them feel the burn, break through the wall and sweat profusely (possibly something by ‘Wet Wet Wet’). Similarly drivers will have their own favourite power ballads in the car to help get their motors running. Until they have kids that is when all they’ll hear for years is ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ followed by pop-pulp and boy bands.

But what I’d really like is the instrumental interludes you get in movies. The sort of tracks which don’t make it to the chart busting soundtrack. They only include several re-released classics and a least one cover by a new but forgettable vocalist - all of which may only appear for a blip of a second within the film in question. No, I want the mood setting music that happens under the main action. Not least because it would give you fair warning of what was about to happen. If it’s fast and crashy then someone’s about to start chasing you. Soft and romantic – pop in a breath mint as the big smooch is coming up. Quite and menacing - don’t open that closet door! Really, don’t! Just get a big gun ready or better still leave the house immediately and find a policeman.

Also as someone who has a terrible memory for names and faces it would be a big help if people had their own signature tunes which played as they approached you. That way you’d remember if they were someone you should either politely smile at, hug or punch in the face! (I look such a fool when I mix those up!) Better still your own tune will immediately announce your presence as you enter the room or signify your power and intent as you leave.

And so farewell…  

*Laurel and Hardy tune as we fade to black*

(Shit)

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Pointillist

I am very much a reluctant decorator. And as glasses wearer I end up literally seeing spots before my eyes whenever the roller comes out. If I were to win the lottery tomorrow before I tell my work where to stick its job I would swear never ever to touch a paint brush again. In fact let’s go further and say that if I ruled the world I'd outlaw DIY altogether. Leave it to the professionals. That’s what they’re there for after all!

Trouble is most of the time I have to do it myself (worst luck). During the ten years we spent at our last house I learnt to strip, paint, wallpaper, tile (both walls and floors), grout and fit coving. I’ve power sanded old floorboards, laid new boards and even boarded the attic. I’ve removed three fitted wardrobes and all the kitchen units before refitting new ones and a sink. And I can honestly say with hand on heart that I never enjoyed a single moment. And having moved house within the last year it’s about to start all over again!

However, the one thing I do like, which I know can drive some people potty, is putting together flat pack furniture. Whether it’s the puzzle aspect or the anal necessity of following instructions I enjoy most I don’t know. Unlike some friends of mine I can’t wait to go back to the big blue and yellow furniture fun house that rhymes with MY-KEA! It’s like being a kid again, deciding which Airfix kit to buy next. My conundrum-craving-cranium also gets a kick out of arranging how to get all the boxes into the car and still have space for a family of four.

MW and even my kids completely shun instruction booklets as though they were the work of Lucifer. Any new game, toy or appliance is simply wrenched from its packaging and fitted together however seems best. It’s only once the thing refuses to work, or refuses to stop working and is threatening the lives of the entire neighbourhood, that I am called upon to find out what the problem is. And the first stage of this recovery process is always the same - find where the instruction manual was shamefully discarded and READ IT!   

I, on the other hand, just sink into an ecstatic fugue when given something new to build. Laying out all the pieces; counting out the bits and fixings; scanning the instructions to see what lies ahead; checking tools are assembled and ready to hand; and all this before even thinking of making a start. The build then goes by in dream like dance - with a one-two-three, one-two-three, slot-A-into-B, attach-bracket-C. And when all is done and I look upon the furniture I have constructed I’ve wept, for there are no more screws to count!

So tell you what. While I’m waiting for my numbers to come up what say we do a deal. You scrape my walls and I’ll un-flatten your pack…

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Intercourse

why link
the world of birds
and bees  with
gooseberry bushy
stork-ing  babies?

there’s nothing
                      sexual
that’s not more
                      contextual

to their own love
cycle
than that of thee
or me

their thing is more to buzz
and sing as flighty friends
who chirp and sting

not ‘how’s your father’

or sportive tricks

(except of course for
 tits and pricks!)

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Towel

Happy Towel Day! 

Do you know where yours is at?

Airborne

I have next to no experience at jet setting. It's not that I hate planes; I’m just an infrequent flyer.  As such I don’t really know what to expect being very naive of airline etiquette.

I think part of the problem comes from Hollywood – a good example being Indiana Jones. (I mean of course the flight to Tibet in ‘Raiders’ rather than crashing into a mountain in ‘Temple’!) In such movies people would simply board a plane and then, as someone recently put it, “Fly by map”. In the time it takes to draw a red line from A to B you’re there! Actually my most recent flight to Ireland was a bit like that. There is more time checking in, spending money in departures and waiting for luggage the other end than flying!

Probably the worst flight was another small trip going on holiday to Jersey with my parents. The short distance was sort of extended due to turbulence. The plane was thrown first one way and then another and would then just drop straight down. The “Fly by map” for that trip would look more like a cross-sectional representation of the Himalayas! On that occasion I think being a novice flyer helped as I was unaffected by the experience – unlike my poor father who was making full use of the complimentary paper bags (and not to do the Eric Morecambe trick!)

But the real ‘treat’ came a few years back when we took a family trip to Florida and therefore went transatlantic. In my innocence I imagined a greater distance would mean a bigger and better experience. Bigger it was but better..? Again Hollywood had me equating USA with luxury airlines, big seats, helpful attendants and an almost surround-sound private cinema experience! What I got was uncomfortable seating, a small screen two inches from my nose and no sound as their batch of ‘complimentary-very-cheap-earphones’ were all duds! For the flight back however we were prepared and had our own earphones ready. But this time the ‘micro-screen’ in front of my wife wasn't working at all.

Now, I'm not sure why I felt the need to stand up and say something. Possibly it was after the fiasco of the first flight or maybe it was just post holiday frustration! But I have a kind of an Incredible Hulk complex. Most of the time I'm mild and quite but every so often things will get on top me enough that I see red - or green if we're still going with the Hulk analogy. (See 'Evil' for more detail on past indiscretions). I certainly don’t know what I expected them to do...

“No problem sir! We have a repairman being rocketed to us as we speak. Once he has successfully transferred from one plane to the other mid-flight he will have your screen up and running before parachuting back to sea-level where a speedboat will take him home again!”

Regardless I stood up to the flight attendant, saying this was not good enough and demanding something be done! Our eyes locked in a battle of wills. Behind mine I had irate indignation and the knowledge that the customer is always right. Unfortunately behind hers I could see tasers, plastic wrist restrains, air marshals and forced ejection. It was a tough call but I finally decided to be the bigger man and backed down.

All in all I think I prefer holidays in our own British Isles. The weather may be unreliable but the on route catering is what you choose, your luggage is never out of your sight and you can step out to stretch your legs whenever choose. Try doing that at thirty-thousand feet...!

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