NOVEMBER 8TH, 2004. | ARCHIVE

I fell back to sleep this morning for a while after breakfast which is something that I almost never do. I woke from a dream with a tune in my head and I was crying. Someone had suggested that I listen to something by Strauss, his first piano concerto or something, and when it started it was so pretty, so removed from what went before in the dream that I was moved to crying.

Before that the action was centred around my flat. I couldn’t seem to escape from my flat though it was clearly what my body was crying out for. I had two or three flatmates from somewhere. Stuart David was also there with a young American protégé that he appeared to have some modelling contract with. She was in the bathroom with clothes all over the place, sunglasses and cosmetics. I just stopped myself from saying something to her. I was in a depressed kind of mood after all on account of being trapped in this flat. Everyone else seemed to have their lives in order, with plenty to occupy them. I however kept flitting from room to room with my mood getting darker throughout.

I just wanted to get them out. I was trying to workout financially how it was that I had to have flatmates; so many tenants. My lawyer explained to me that when I wrote up the contract for the flat I left a small charitable clause in it that the bath was to be part owned by the band, along with a toaster or something; just this little philanthropic gesture…but that lead Stuart and apparently these other people to use the flat to run their business ventures from.

There was one business concern going on that I was impressed with. You couldn’t help it. It was a large charitable and catering affair. In fact that was what it seemed to be; a catering company that took on whole parties of people, took them under their wing.

The couple that ran the thing were busily getting on with things and didn’t really have time to talk to me. Not only was there a party of old ladies and gents to be attended to, but their parents were they’re as well casting a critical eye over proceedings and over the premises.

“If only you could keep it a little cleaner!” said the mother of the businesswoman.

“Yes, I think we’re going to go halves on a cleaning lady.” I found myself answering her.

There was to be a performance by an orchestra for all the old people. There was quite a few handicapped people there as well. I asked one of the ladies where they were all from.

“We’re all from Rhode Island.”

Then she began to tell me the particulars of where exactly on Rhode Island they were from, but I can’t remember. She told me about the handicapped people, who were just about coming into get their seats.

“It all stems from their tear glands being wrong. Their tear ducts are blocked, so they can’t cry. Hence they’ve become twisted.”

I went to hold the door for them, and looked at them as they passed me. Quite a few of them seemed to have their eyes tight shut like they were born blind. They seemed to be a mixture of mental and physically handicapped people. What with seeing them, and with the feeling of remorse for being so angry earlier on, I found tears on my cheeks. I had a distinct feeling that they were growing pregnant like buds before they finally collapsed and rolled over my cheeks, burning as they went.

Previously I had got angry. My other two flatmates were gentle souls, but looked too much to me for guidance. They didn’t seem to be able to make many decisions for themselves. I felt responsible for them and it was a responsibility I could have done without seemingly. One of them was talking on the phone. When I came in the room they told me it was Neil on the phone wanting to talk about some artwork that he had received from me and was trying to process.

There was a problem with it, that was clear. However when I got on the phone Neil couldn’t explain the problem. He started growling like a lion! I got annoyed at this. I needed details, precision explanations, not wild animal growls. I explained this to him, getting more and more angry, but all he did was growl more ferociously!

I put down the phone. It was then that I got caught up with the old ladies from Rhode Island. So the performance was just about to begin. The music was so pretty that the women who I had been talking to took it upon herself to throw herself off the balustrade and into the orchestra pit fifty feet below. She went backwards, head first, onto the concrete. I got a feeling that her head popped like a watermelon would. She went away smiling though. She obviously felt that this was the right moment to do it, when the music was so pretty.

I woke up soon after with the sound of that piano concerto stuck in my head. I wandered through to the piano, dazed, and tried to get down the just of it. If I was any good, I’d stick an mpeg of it here to reward you for again tolerating the telling of a dream.

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