Just as a little point of interest; I’ll be guest writing in Letters of Bother for the next two weeks. So, if you want to see more of me and my writing (and, honestly, who doesn’t?) take a sidelong glance at the site. And stick around after all is said and done. She’s a good writer.
‘The baby I’m carrying is human,’ she whispered, ‘but it is in danger of having a heart attack.’
We’re on the Great Wall of China and a sunny breeze is sifting her hair into my face as I hug her. She whispered the news almost sadly, but I knew in her heart that she was happy. She never wanted a baby anyway.
I move away and step into the mansion, the vibrant reds and golds welcoming me with a smile. My mum comes over covered in an assortment of fabrics with only her hands and face visible. ‘Time for the banquet,’ she calls, ‘lets go.’ But I’m not done yet. I walk over to the light switch and rest a finger on it while looking up at the overly priced chandeliers. With a grin I flick the switch on and off, but the lights stay dark. My mum looks at me confused and I laugh heartily before taking flight and spinning round the room. I shoot off as fast as I can and burst through the brick wall and spiral into the sky. With a wave of my hand I populate the ground with people, happy people who dance and sing as I curve round mountains gazing at the steam engine that shoots down it.
With a look at the blue sky and clouds I fire upwards. The wind on my face is exhilarating, and the clouds part for me as I travel faster and faster into the stratosphere. There’s a moment of peace, a moment of silence where everything stops for a moment and I see the great plains of the universe stretched out before me in every direction. I then make the utterly foolish mistake of opening my eyes, finding not Orion or the Big Dipper laying in front of me, but a ceiling. I smile and twist and fall back asleep.
Lucid dreaming is fucking awesome.
The flat is darkend by twilight and sinful intent as I worm my way through the hallways and people to reach the living room. The soft glow of candlelight beckons me to the floor where you lie with your suspenders pulled tight and corset over flowing with tantalising flesh as I take my prize. The joy of the work is long and sweaty, and just before I climax I pull out, because something’s changed. Your face is no longer smiling but sneering with lust and no hint of love. I realise with horror that it wasn’t you all along, but a relic of a life dissipated by winds. The curtains catch fire and I retrieve her thong from a lampshade and throw it at her. The heat arcs round and tongues of fire carry it to the feet of another relic of the past, one who looks at me with wrinkled, degrading eyes and tuts with her hissing teeth.
The room’s burning now. I push the fire to one side like a curtain and exit the living room to the wide expanse of the hall. Your brother is there and he wants to hit me more than he ever wanted to hit your father, and I can see the hate and rage building up in his eyes as he stands and glares at me, asking for my advice on schoolwork. I push him to the side and he falls through the fire, laughing. I run and run but I can hardly move. Fleets of girls beset themselves upon me, grabbing and screaming as I struggle with my mollasses movement. They’re all too young and too naked for me to look, but they keep screaming so loud that I cannot push them out.
When I wake I’m sitting in the middle of a university lecture. My brother is sitting beside me drinking from a hipflask and shouting glaring truths to the dead lecturer. He smiles a wicked smile at me and I grab him by the front of the shirt, lifting him off the ground with both my fists balled into the shirt that’s running with animals. I ask him to stop shouting, to tell me what this means, to tell me what to do.
And he laughs. He throws his head back and utters a devlish laugh that disconnects his face from his jaw and sends his head cascading to the ground. The gurgling from his exposed throat causes his tnogue to writhe like a snake and I drop him to the ground, and there you are, smiling with your hands in your pockets and a cigarette being held aloof by an ornate red holder. The forest around us is burning and the embers drift between us like snow and coats the ground only to be disturbed by my footprints as I walk towards you. I reach out to touch you but a blazing flame erupts between us and I wake up in my bed dripping with hot, sticky sweat and choking back on the terror and sadness.
Gondry wrote in Gael Garcia Bernal’s voice, saying that in dreams, emotions are overwhelming. And that they most certainly are.
So there’s a ghost in my psychology class, who slinks and stalks and glides in the way the ghosts tend to do. What is also does is sit and take lecture notes, which I’ve never really seen a ghost do before. Not that I’m frequently visited by ghosts or anything. Her curls cascade down her back as her pen scratches ominously on the paper. I try and leave the lecture hall early occasionally to catch another view of her face, but her eyes flow from my gaze and she goes as quickly as she comes. I tried sitting beside her once, expecting her to notice me and look at me, but she just stared stright ahead and took notes on the cerebellum. I packed my notebook into my bag and when I looked up she was gone again.
I know it’s not the ghost I think I’m seeing. Her eyes smouldered with the fires of hell and this ghost leaks black ink and smiles with the beginning of spring. Even so, a quick glance at her roots my feet to the ground and makes my jacket creak with the heaviness of old wood.
(How’s that for a metaphor, bitches)
And dreams are plaguing me again. I fall into a deep drunken slumber and my mind is running with images that won’t stop screaming no matter how hard I yell. Not all of them are bad though. Sometimes there’re flowing fields of green that ripple under my feet, and I wake up before the sky darkens and ruins it all with solid rain.
