Everyone knows Dave (can dance).

My housemate Dave went to see one of his relatives (an aunt?) in an am-dram production in his home town in South West England.  So far it was gently enjoyable, if a little plodding.  One of the cast – possibly playing an olde worlde town mayor – called on an audience member to join the cast on stage.  Dave, being considered the amiable sort, was chosen and the rest of the audience chuckled a little at his pliant haplessness.  While his aunt and the mayor continued a bit of dialogue, Dave awaited instruction.

What happened next was this:

seabass tap dancing

That’s Dave doing a tap dance.

Having got him up there, the actors didn’t quite seem to know what to do with him. There was a slightly embarrassing silence as Dave’s aunt and the town mayor appeared to wonder whose line was next.  Then a rapid sequence of taps sounded from around Dave’s feet, as though he had castanets in one heel. Then the other heel. The audience began to whoop as Dave flew up and down the stage with a cascade of taps and trills.

(Inwardly, his aunt was fuming at being upstaged by her own nephew, but couldn’t show her anger in the face of the audience’s cheers.  She and the mayor were forced into the indignity of pretending that the tap-dancing stooge had been part of their act all along.  Poor aunty!)

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Orgy of death. Again.

For my day-job, I rent workspace, and one place I worked has recently closed down.  Not particularly a problem, because I was hardly ever there anyway, and there are other places I can work from, but I did like the manager there.  He was a gentle, unassuming middle-class hippie who I imagine trying to balance yurt-living with academia.

Last night I dreamt he was repurposing the space to hold soirees where people came to play music, exhibit art, smoke the pipe and almost certainly have orgies.  I was just a little offended that he didn’t think my business would fit in with that.

But then dead bodies – naked ones, I think – started turning up in the city.  They were dumped just beyond the edges of my parents’ cul-de-sac (which as you may know, is in an entirely different part of the country from where I live), and I think my mum and I discovered them together.

Whatever point my subconscious mind was trying to make recently with this dream, it obviously feels I haven’t got it yet.  (Fair enough, I haven’t.  There was so much going on in the moonlight dream that I could be mulling it over for months.)

What recurring themes have you noticed in your dreams?  Do you have dreams that recur every so often, over many years (like the one where your exams are tomorrow, and your revision notes have turned into a shoe)?  Or, as I’m having currently, a cluster of similar-feeling dreams happening over a few weeks or months?  Let me know in the comments!

Oh, and please do subscribe to this site so that I can update you on the next unlikely killing spree.

home

I was a young girl with longish fair hair.  (Or was I watching a film about a young girl?  Bloody film dreams!)  I’d been adopted by a kindly couple and was arriving home with them permanently after months of visits and discussions, during which I’d kept thinking they would change their mind.  There was every opportunity for them to decide I was too much trouble – or if not I, then the adoption process.  My new father in the dream was my real-life dad, although much younger, which he would be seeing as I was more than twenty years younger myself.  I sobbed with relief, my new mother watching me gently, as I looked around at the smallish living room, the oak-furnished kitchen where I now lived and could not be sent away from.

I’d say the meanings of this dream are fairly self-explanatory: longing for love, wanting parental protection, wanting a second chance at childhood, wishing my childhood / parents had been different.  In particular, it’s only in relatively recent years that my real-life dad and I have come to understand each other better and be close; hence me wishing us both younger again, so that we could get to know each other with more years, and my adulthood, still ahead of us.

At least one thing that never ends well

So actually, I had a sort of lovey-dovey dream about K last night, which, if these theories are to be believed, may not bode well for the romance.

In a definite ill-omen towards a different sort of relationship, I also dreamt sending a shirty email to a potential client who wanted to haggle over price.

(In reality, I sent a polite email that nonetheless conveyed the same message).

by moonlight

I was watching a film at my parents’ place (a device my subconscious particularly loves to use).  In it, an almost-pubescent girl was guest at a huge old house owned by a man with something of the undead about him.  To my dreaming mind, the house looked like that of my best friend from junior school, with the same split level floors (the first floor had mezzanines, and didn’t make sense as just one storey), and rooms that instead of having jusst one door – in and out – had doors in at least two of their walls, so that you could lock one door behind you and carry on through the other exit to the next chamber.  But this house, of course, was much bigger than the one where I used to play.

moonlight house

Other guests were staying at the house, adults and children, mostly females, the girl didn’t know how many.  Almost nightly, a guest or two would disappear, presumed eaten, but the girl didn’t guess that her host was the culprit.  He was a kind man, her friend, if a little hard for some people to understand because he kept to himself and was ponderously intellectual.  The girl liked that.  She understood it.

By now, almost all the others were gone.  The girl was beginning, reluctantly at first and then with terror, to face what she had suspected all along but suppressed.  She had thought her gentle host wouldn’t attack her.  She had turned a blind eye to what happened to the others, as lond as she believed herself exempt.  But what else had she decieved herself about?

She crept down to the cellar seeking – but hoping not to find – evidence of what had happened to her fellows.  Their remains, some of their possessions, even – could they be? – some people still alive.  In the cellar was a sunken pool filled with a kind of stagnant green slime.  (At this point, my mum came into the room, looked at the TV screen and said, “I’m not watching this, it’s too grisly for me.”)

Terrified, the girl fled back upstairs.  In the dark house, she ran through room after room locking each door behind her, both looking for her delusive host and praying not to be found by him.

In one room, she could dimly make out a bed, and a man sitting on it.  From the faint moonlight coming in through the heavy curtains, she did not see his full nakedness but only the strong torso lit by a cold blue glow.  In the silence and darkness, she softly reached out her hand to touch this male skin.  For a moment, she was rapt at the sensation of solid muscle beneath her fingers.  The man did not move; had she percieved him in that moment as a man and not merely a sensual object, she would have sensed him holding his breath too.  Then she remembered that her murderous host would soon find her here if she didn’t run, and so she scrambled into the next room, struggling with trembling fingers to secure the chain on the door.

Hanging…

Lying in bed, I didn’t want to get up and face the news that the Conservatives had won a landslide.  I didn’t want to leave the house, or even go from room to room, with the heavy feeling of disappointment and, on top of that, the blocked feeling in my sinuses.  I didn’t want to be around housemates and friends who would all be likewise glum.  I could hear the steady fall of rain against my windows.

I woke up a bit.  Today was Thursday not Friday – the country hadn’t voted yet.

The rain was real, as was the feeling of a cold coming on, and the feeling of dread.  I dreamt I was door-knocking in the drizzle.  I dreamt I didn’t want to go door-knocking.  I dreamt I was calling the local campaign manager to say I was ill and so sorry I couldn’t make it.  Maybe I even dreamt that I didn’t vote, because the polling station was half a mile away in the rain, and my constituency is a safe Labour seat, so my vote isn’t needed, and the Tories are going to win anyway, so my vote doesn’t matter.

labour rose

I did go door-knocking, and the sun was out.  My group (mostly university students, plus a few older folks) went round the suburb where I used to live with J.  Down one of the long streets, I saw more gardens with rose bushes than I’ve ever noticed in such a small area before.  One old, Irish gentleman with almost-blind eyes showed me the tiny picture of Mary hanging near his door, and crossed himself as he said he hoped we won.  To my surprise, I heard myself say “god bless” as well as goodbye, and by the look on his face he was surprised too, as he wished me the same in return.

 

I’ve f*cking had it with cold callers….AND the rest of you!

I’ve been getting up to twenty missed calls a day from the same 0207 number.  They’ve been at it for weeks and they never leave a message.  I’ve no intention of answering; they’ve been reported as a nuisance caller on some online forums and – huzzah! – I’ve just figured out how to block numbers on the phone I’ve only had for about two years.  I’m not amongst the most tech-savvy of my generation.  Then again, it’s nice that I haven’t needed the block function until now.

So, last night’s dream.  I was with X, a lady I know through Bollywood dance.  She’s a little older than me, and very mild-tempered.  The same 0207 number came up on my phone and I fucking lost it.  My rag, I mean. Not my phone.  X looked remonstratively at me as I laid into the person on the other end.  Yeah I know they’re trying to make a living like everyone else.  I was sorry to be swearing and raging like this in front of her, when she’d always thought I was a nice and gentle person.  At the same time I felt resentful; nobody knew how much I’d had to put up with and who was X or anyone else to judge me for my fury?

wtf, subconscious?

This was old rage, man.  Rage, and also despair.  I felt so powerless to stop these intrusions into my privacy and the aggressiveness of the cold-callers.  What did I care if this particular trigger-happy sales-targeteer was kind of a scapegoat for so many others.

When I think about why it was X who cropped up in my dream – someone I don’t know all that well – I recall that I do know she had an unhappy marriage.  Considering this is a woman who almost never has a bad word for anyone, I’ve heard her describe her ex-husband in pretty strong terms.

Over the years, it’s not only belligerent sales-badgers who’ve bounded across my boundaries.  This dream was the anger equivalent of the fear I felt in ok, computer. Both dreams featured shame or guilt. I feel ashamed to be heard expressing my anger. I feel guilt at the thought that I might really be in the wrong.  So X has a conflicting role in this dream.  She probably knows a thing or three about anger, and yet I worried about offending her with mine. It’s still so hard not to feel ashamed.