The bus brakes suddenly. A moment later, there is a shockwave, people turn, and screams come from behind us. I run toward the screams and meet my colleagues there.
Later, I see people in poverty, enslaved on an alien spacecraft. They tell me their stories of being tricked.
I start the dream again and try to save them.
This time, when the bus brakes, I'm already watching carefully. This time, when people scream, I run the other way.
The explosion, causing the screams, was a diversion. I see a big car speeding across the grass and I jump in front of it, thinking that it would be good if I had a gun. The car doesn't stop (the windows are blacked out and I can't see anyone inside), but fortunately a car full of civilians rams it from the side, saving me.
"Get in!" they scream.
I jump in.
I end up hearing similar tales of woe as before. "The aliens are coming." "They are enslaving us." "They don't care about human life."
All the while, my mind is working on how to save everyone.
A Stephen King novel meets A Game of Thrones. A cold fog is sweeping through the town. Anyone it touches, anyone who walks into it, is taken by the cold and they cannot ever leave. They can only move within the confines of the ever-expanding, cold fog.
Vans and removal trucks speed along the street. They growl and swerve as they race to get out of town.
I am in a position of responsibility, perhaps the sheriff. In my attempts to protect people, I end up standing in the street with the fog approaching. I end up walking into it. Just a few feet.
An unseen wind blows through me. It chills my ribs and my spine. I imagine leaves and dust blowing between my bones. My flesh feels as insubstantial as air.
I look back at my team and other onlookers.
"Get back!" I say as the fog continues to creep toward them.
After a few more seconds, the fog stops. It roils, but doesn't advance any further.
In the mist, like the white walkers in A Game of Thrones, trapped people wonder within the fog. They are wearing what they were wearing when it enveloped them.
I'm in uniform. That's me in uniform forever.
I don't feel like I'm losing my mind yet. The others, however, look gone mentally. I wonder how long that takes. I wonder what that feels like.
A man straight out of a Stephen King novel approaches through the fog. He is wearing brown, leather boots. Something about me being captured has changed things and, talking to the people outside the fog, he offers a truce between his fog and the rest of the world.
As long as no-one tries to get anyone out of the fog, he says, he'll let the rest of the world survive. Anyone who enters the fog of their own volition, however, will be his.
"How come you can turn into a werewolf AND other things?" someone asks. It seems impertinent, like, unnecessary right now.
"I shapeshift into a wolf," he answers quickly. "From my wolf form, I can shapeshift into many things."
He moves on quickly, physically, as if to avoid questioning. It seems like we've found a plot hole in the story and he wants to gloss over it.
Gone, the evil man lets us mull over his deal.
I consider my life in the cold.
It's not as cold as I thought it would be.
But it does look like forever.
Those in the fog have given up, but those on the other side are trying to think of solutions. I admire them and I think I might be in a unique position to help from here.
In a camp of survivors, I'm having a laugh with three soldiers when I realize that the leader is watching.
The soldiers have become fat and soft over the last few months, but this will not do. I turn nasty on them, but they think my yelling and admonishments are part of the joke. I try to whisper to them that this is just for show and that they need to play along, but they only laugh at me. Until I hit one of them.
They look upset. I'm upset. They stand up straight.
Later, during a military training exercise, the leader takes his large army bag and I know he's leaving. He looks like the guy who used to do The Daily Show. He hugs me and then he's gone.
Later still, people realize the washing still needs doing.
I organise the taking down and folding of half a load of washing. My friend folds with me.
Downstairs, I hear a tape recording. A deep voice booms:
"Don't forget your keys."
"Don't close the door."
"Take your keys with you."
"The door locks automatically."
On cue, I hear a loud CLICK and then a guy yells: "Shit! Fuck! Fucking fuu-ck!"
My old flatmate stomps up the stairs, cursing under his breath. He turns on heavy metal music. I don't know whether this is to calm him down or to help him think.
Outside, I'm impressed by this workplace/living area.
We are on communal land, owned by a rich, young visionary; on a hill, with an exceptional view.
The main house is all dark glass at the front, on three floors. Modular buildings stand In a rough semi-circle on the land in front. Each unique building has its own character and looks as if it were designed by an architect. Each is owned by a different group and is overseen by the main house.
A woman in a leather apron stands outside her workshop, a one-story building with a pink, sloping roof.
This is beautiful. I want to stay.
Kevin Spacey is a lighting salesman.
My two friends - a man and a woman - and I are close enough to talk to each other without looking at each other and to have some witty banter with some gentle mockery,
The man tests some of the lights as he walks around the store. He hits upon one that has various attachments. It changes from a downcast light to uplighting that illuminates the corner of the massive showroom in a weird way.
Large, leafy plants in the corner suddenly glow, alien-like. Changing the switch of this light is like having the room re-interpreted by a different artist.
I ask Spacey how much it costs. He says the words, but there is so much excitement that I don't hear him the first time. On asking him to repeat himself, I brace myself, and he says:
"Three thousand three hundred pounds," with a straight face, with no expression at all.
My friends make some mocking noises, but I keep playing with the light.
It's the one. It's perfect.
I begin to tell them that I have an idea about a dream home, and while I can't afford this today, maybe one day ... but I know that voicing that is the ideal way to kill the dream. Instead, I look around and wonder if a place like this ever has a half-price clearance sale, in which case ...
On the way out, I thank Kevin Spacey and I reach into my silver business card case. My cards (IRL and ITD) are deliberately sparse, but I've pre-annotated the first one (IRL and ITD) with my full contact details. I start pulling it out but hesitate.
I realize that if Kevin Spacey is serving me, then I must be in a movie. And if I'm in a movie with Kevin Spacey, I probably don't want to be giving the Kevin Spacey character my full contact details.
Unable to hide what I'm doing, I switch cards for a sparse one that just has one phone number and an email address.
He takes it the way a man takes a business card when he has a courtesy case full of business cards at that which he never looks.
He watches us go with that empty expression. The alien leaves glow in the background.
A little boy is in a room with several other kids. They ask me to wait until he's outside, and then I can escort him to the bathroom.
As a joke, I sing to him through the keyhole. My voice is high and ethereal, but I can't hit a note.
I decide to take out my tablet and load up Etherpad, but there's a box of stuff on top of it. I have to excavate the junk to get to it. Fortunately, the screen is intact.
I talk to the guy next to me about Etherpad. He's retirement age and he's not that interested until I start playing. Then, he raises his eyebrows and watches.
My playing is interupted, however, by a video.
In the video, people (pedestriants, commuters, sightseers) are sleeping on an interactive 911 monument in London. The monument is made of leather cushions the size of small sofas with several gigantic blankets thrown over them.
The person videoing the scene pulls a blanket off someone. The guy who was disturbed quickly covers himself back up, irritated. Hilarious.
When the video ends, I close the window and play some more Etherpad, but I fall asleep waiting for the boy to come out.
On waking, the boy is gone. His mother took him home. The man next to me is gone too.
Now it's just me and the tablet and the remaining kids, sleeping.
I play Etherpad some more.
I'm having a nap in my writing room. I feel a bit weird. I'm exhausted and maybe dehydrated. A glass of water and orange is on the other side of the room. It's within reach, yet it seems so far away.
Falling asleep, I find myself sitting on a bench in a small tent.
The sloping canvas roof of the tent keeps slapping against my head and face. It's white and light pushes through it. It bulges inwards with the wind, as though an animal is shoving it from the other side, but I know it's just the wind.
Still, I swat at it, as if there is some sentience behind it.
Meanwhile, although I see nothing, I feel things like large spiders crawl up my leg and into my lap. I try to get used to the feeling, because it would be nice not to be bothered by such things. All they are going to do, if they are real, is touch me, I reason. They won't even touch me; only my clothes.
After less than half a minute, I can't take it anymore and I'm swatting at them. This means, therefore, that I'm swatting at nothing and I know it.
My friend: "'Ello, mate. Can I come in?"
"Hang on," I say.
'm half-laughing as I wake myself up. It's like hauling a bucket out of a well and I'm the bucket. Dream is slopping over the edges.
I pull my way out of sleep, up through the swirls of white tent roof.
With a deep breath, I make my way across the tent toward the door, stepping over office equipment.
I think: "I'm a bit disorientated," but I don't say this out loud. I meant to speak, but the words stayed inside me.
When I reach the door, I realize that the door is attached to the tent, which means I'm still in the tent, which means I'm still dreaming.
This is not going to help me reach my friend, I think, who is standing outside the door in waking life, not the door in the dream.
try to wake myself up again.
In my writing room, my hood is over my face. I get up and stagger to the door, holding onto things to steady my way.
There's no-one there.
I flop back down and drink that glass of water and orange.
Later, I ask my friend if he called out to me earlier.
He says no.
I'm driving a taxi to earn some extra cash. My friend yells at me for not switching on the fare computer.
My very first turn as a taxi driver - left - is wrong.
My passengers are worried about being shot down.
Yep. That could happen.
A woman in white is laughing, but she's in another dream.
I land the car and help a naked fairy. She was tortured and stripped. I clothe her and we jump to freedom. She lands beautifully, but I land some way off. The distance frees me from her spell and I realize that she is using me.
The fairy is dictating a blog post as she steals my car. I could run and get in, but I don't want to.
That woman in white is still laughing, but she's still in the wrong dream.
A young man has worked out how to talk to evil spirits. You have to use a raspy voice, high in the hertz.
He screws his face up as he demonstrates. Listening to his voice, I feel the world change a little, like something new is looking our way, the way a bear might look at ripe fruit hanging high in a tree. Or it's like a window has been pushed open a few inches and a distant wind blows through our world.
As I hang up washing, I hear someone complaining about me. They are saying that I am evil.
I finish hanging the washing.
Thought I'd see if I could capture my dreams through drawing and painting. This one's a bit ambitious. Not recognisably Jackie, but I'll get there!
If I dream of a bowl of fruit by next Wednesday, I'll have a more recognisable drawing to post..
Here's the dream:
I couldn't find a good clip of the exact fight scene that this dream reminds me of. But here is a trailer for the film it's from, Police Story, and it's sequel, Police Story 2.
I sidestep from wakefulness into a lucid dream in which I'm outside, on a hill, on a bike;. Stationary, but balancing on two wheels, I hop and make the bike clear the ground by a foot.
I do it again. Two feet.
Again. Three feet.
On descent, I feel my stomach rising, that thrilling sensation of falling. I find it unpleasant, but there's something compelling about bouncing,
I bounce onto an old stony wall that separates the garden I was in from the rest of the world. The rest of the world is no less green or lush, but it goes on further. The land slopes downward for a long way and ahead I can see the bottom of the valley and then another mound of earth rising in a great hill, not quite a mountain, on the other side.
Still on the stationary bike, I hop down to the ground, landing on the "rest of the world" side. My stomach rises into my chest, giving me butterflies.
The sky is red. Beautiful. It looks like something somewhere is on fire and the sky is gradually reflecting the colour and movement of flames. The clouds are slow, black shadows. In the distance, trees are silhouettes.
I bounce higher so I can see more.
I bounce higher, to see how high I can bounce.
The butterfly sensation becomes so intense that I can't stand it anymore
I wake up.
There's a beautiful woman at work. She might be Iranian. She's tall and sullen. We've never seen eye to eye, I don't know why, but when I see a crowd around her and I hear her saying googbye to people, I go over.
She's wearing a denim dress with a short jacket. Her hair is naturally brown and blonde, very short and curly.
When I'm near enough for us to hear each other and we make eye contact, I say:
"It sounds like you're leaving for a long time."
"I'm fired," she says with no hint of emotion.
"Oh," I say. "Look, I'm sorry we didn't talk more, but ..."
She raises one hand, like a police officer stopping traffic.
She moves on to the next conversation with the next person.
Delighted by my humiliation, my boss smiles at me from her podium.
I check on the animals. They are in a field, penned into a small area by electric fence wire.
The goat has a great capacity for kicking things and is currently kicking a bail of hay over the fence line so that the animals can't eat.
"Why are animals such assholes?" I ask myself.
Later, the goat challenges the bull to a fight. The goat soon charges, but instead of butting heads, it jumps, runs over the bull's back and jumps off the other side.
"BACK IN THE OFFICE"
I try to get on with my work. I fix a computer screen. I chat to an old friend I used to work with IRL; she too is spiky and uncommunicative, as if she is upset with me.
Later, a female colleague I don't know sidles closer and closer until she is clinging to my arm. A man is staring at us, distressed.
"If you want to break up with him," I suggest to the woman, "you should probably be more direct."
After thinking it over, she relinquishes my arm and breaks into song. She sings to her partner about how she feels. Trapped. Like he doesn't appreciate her.
He sings back, operatically. He loves her really. He just doesn't know how to show it.
"That was great," I say.
They look at me blankly, until I sing something like:
"That was great
what you said;
put the past
in its bed."
The happy couple beam at me.
In the toilets, a white, enamel sink that stretches the length of the room. By the chrome-plated taps, there is a 6-octave piano.
I don't even pee. I just wash my hands and play the piano. Everything I play on this piano sounds beautiful. The sound reverberates and swells, pushed around by the dank, grey-brown walls.
I play a sad song with deep, sorrowful chords and a wistful, heart-rending melody.
I worry that anyone hearing this outside the toilet will worry about my mental state, but I'm ok. I just need some time.
A prophecy says the Hound can only be killed on Valyrian soil. When he stops a caravan on its way to Highgarden and demands that the occupants come out, therefore, he thinks he is safe.
From inside the caravan, Ser Loras Tyrell fires two arrows.
The first arrow merely pierces the wall and sprays the Hound with dust.
The Hound looks at his already soiled cloak and realizes that this new dust is from Valyria.
"Oh, fffuck!" he says, more pissed off and disgusted than afraid, though he knows what is coming.
A second arrow pierces his armor and thumps into his chest.
He drops to his knees.
The ground drinks his blood.
Dee from Battlestar Galactica is on a date with an astronaut.
He underestimates her, like everyone else. She tells a witty joke about opening the emergency door on a space shuttle, but her heart isn't in the conversation.
She ends up alone, at a table in the middle of the bar, tapping on her forehead with a pen.
I'm writing the scene, putting words in her mouth and mind. I too am tapping my forehead with the end of my Biro.
They find me in my tent, tending a long, slow fire, dozing.
"It's warm in here," the boy remarks.
I glare up at him, but the whole world seems upside down.
Later, at dinner, the truth of my thoughts drifts back to me.
"You look like you're very far away," the maester notes.
"Not me," I say. "We're fine. It's the world that's gone."
"Gone," he chuckles, his blue eyes twinkling. "Gone where?"
"I don't know," I reply thoughtfully as I push the grey meat around my plate. "But I know we're dreaming."
I look up at him to pierce him with the accusation. He seems shocked. Whether it's because I found out his secret or because he doesn't know himself, I don't know. But I will.
I go back to mopping up bloody gravy with mashed potato. He goes back to pretending I'm a silly little girl.
A giant elephant rampages in the shadowy garden.
It's not just an elephant, but a giant elephant.
It bats trees out of the way like twigs, thunders in and out of the darkness, devastating the stillness.
My friend suggests putting it on a lead.
"It'll be fine," he says, running alongside her with the rope..
Trembling inside the relative but not absolute safety of the stone house, I become #lucid.
I float for a better perspective, but get
when I pass through the ceiling into the attic.
Dusty material. Cardboard boxes. Corridors.
Unknown people in casual clothes perform science experiments in converted classrooms.
A strange-looking woman mistakes me for someone else, hugs me, and tells me she'll be right back, but this is a dream; real as it seemed to her, as real as I seemed, her entire world is gone before she returns.
Almost in silhouette, I see Winona Ryder stomping across a hilltop towards our barn. She is wearing a long, black dress and boots. I hear her furious thoughts.
"I HATE it when he hides in the other room," she thinks, "and pretends I've discovered him doing something!"
When Winona enters the barn, I make sure to stumble into view, looking harried.
"Sorry," I say, breathless. "I was just in the other room."
I gesticulate towards the other room,
On the other side of the room is an open door, which, even now, is closing its secrets to us - to her - in a slow arc.
Winona smiles warmly.
I’m falling asleep and see a large red sky, gently swirling. In the process of watching, I realize that I’m dreaming and I jump into the dream, like a bird taking flight.
I hang in the sky, sort of sliding along, carried by the sky. Ahead of me is a sharp image, like a mandala. It contains many hexagons. In each hexagon is an icon. The floating mandala thing spins and slides away from me just as fast as I slide towards it.
Between you and me, I’m a bit disappointed by this.
The sky is red. The ground is green. The world is blurred, except for the mandala.
Physically uncomfortable, I open my eyes briefly, shift in my seat and lose the dream. I shut my eyes again and try to get back into the dream.
This time the blurred sky is grey-blue. I jump into it again and hang there, floating like before, but the mandala is gone. The world is still blurred.
I then dream about living in a rustic commune and sharing responsibilities and facilities, including a cooker that has its symbols drawn on in pen and if you rub your finger over it the symbols disappear, which complicates things for people who don’t know how to use the cooker.
I rub one mark away with my thumb and it disappears as cleanly as if it were never there.
I should come back and redraw them, I think.
I’m playing a game where I get to choose a vampire from a range of contestants. I have them walking around in the dark like they are sharks.
In this round, I eliminate almost everyone.
The dark is gloopy. It has grey, yellow streaks in it. Although they are above ground, it’s like they are underwater, in the depths of the ocean.
Two women circle. One of them is young, goth pale, and dressed in black. She has large, dark, dead eyes. They don’t seem to focus on anything.
She keeps her mouth open, like she’s filtering water. Or, again, like she’s dead. She makes big circles.
She’s going to make a fantastic vampire.
Later, we break into somebody's apartment.
I'm with a my friend's boyfriend, a flat-nosed, orange-skinned gangster.
We enjoy the stuff in the apartment, like we are in "The Bling Ring." There's a modern, brown, leather armchair that looks like it belongs in a museum. Even its shadow is beautiful.
I'm rolling a cigarette when I spot the shared bathroom. It is shared by other apartments. Across an acre of wet tile floor, black grills and plugholes. In the distance, there is a portly young man in a towel. Unsurprisingly, he looks surprised to see me.
I shut the door.
It's too late. Within a minute, there are people at every door, either banging for us to open up or preventing us from leaving, demanding to know who we are.
Angry faces everywhere. They chatter at us, at each other.
Thus cornered, I wake myself
Lying in the dark, scared of the consequences of breaking and entering.
I shouldn't have done it.
But then I realize it's over.
Which means that I managed to wake up.
Which means it really was a dream.
And now I feel like a wimp.
to the dream.
In a shared room, now, with bunk beds and friends. An orthodox Jew is making us watch TV.
A young boy of about eight years old, his personal student, is looking up at him and asking questions.
The old Jew answers, but always in a way that is derogatory to me and my friends.
"Would you like my chair," I ask the old man, standing, conciliatory, "so you can be more comfortable?"
He accepts, but in a way that suggests any discomfort, therefore, was directly my fault.
Although I'm burning with anger, I move away from the chair. I don't want my friends to see how furious I am. I want them to see the best in people. I want to set the example.
"What does that word mean?" the boy says, pointing to a page in his book.
"That means: 'two things helping each other,'" the old man replies, and he gives the boy a loving smile.
"It's the opposite of internecine," I spit, "which is where two things destroy each other."
"Yes," I think, glaring at them. "I'm implying that you're going to destroy each other."
They just look at me, like I've walked in on them in the middle of something.
Image source: Your Best Digs
A girl takes me to her apartment in Japan. Her apartment has an anti-gravity setting.
She and her roommate clamber over the walls and ceiling. It's like the dorm is turning slowly, like in an 80s music video, but I can attest that it's not. I'm on the ground and the room is not moving at all.
She turns the setting to neutral to make breakfast. Toast.
Meanwhile, she listens to her favorite song, which is backwards.
After two bars, I guess the track.
I can see from her shocked face that I'm correct.
"Are you not impressed?" I ask. "I got the right answer. After two bars!"
There are some beautiful moments, particularly how it begins and how it ends.
If you don't have software to have fun reversing your own tracks, here's a link to a site that will take care of it - https://www.mp3-reverser.com/en/
This is handy, too. - https://www.online-convert.com/result/a7835e98-5da6-4c1b-b1eb-49f616203153
The movie projectionist keeps moving the image on the screen. He makes it larger. Centres it. Pulls out. Moves to another area.
The audience groans.
Finally, the film starts.
Young US college kids are joking around. They jump into the sea.
Under the water, they cling to each other and kick and finally jump as one to break the surface again.
Then they're in a bar. Chatting.
I'm with them, in the movie. They requested audience participation and I'm it.
The college kids are joking around. There's an edge to it though. Jibes. Taunts. Not a sentence is said without it being at someone else's expense.
They dive into the sea.
They kick. Bubbles.
As one, they attempt to break the surface, but this time they can't manage it without a boost.
I wade into the beautiful, cold water to help.
Chatting in the bar, I'm smiling at the college kids' jokes.
There's a man there, drinking himself to death. He has about sixteen glasses of various kinds of alcohol lined up in front of him, taking over the bar.
He's pissing off the kids and they're pissing him off.
To cool off, the kids jump/fall into the beautiful, blue water and it's all white bubbles and thrashing legs and shorts billowing out like jellyfish, red and blue and white.
Underwater, it's all grimaces and silent screams.
They scrabble and push for the surface, hampering one another, like a bait ball inviting destruction not protection.
The boys finally break the surface, gasping.
In the bar, the guys are chatting while trying to put an elastic band around a lightbulb.
I start to join in with the conversation. I don't know if I'm meant to talk or not. If I talk, and go off script, will they improvise around me? Am I supposed to say something to break the cycle of drowning and drinking? There are no instructions. So perhaps I'm supposed to ask questions.
I open my mouth to speak and the camera moves away from me.
The alcoholic is no longer at the bar.
He is in the audience.
The woman sitting in the row behind him is stuffing a plastic bag into his mouth and he is trying to spit it out to scream.
A guy next to him is spraying his face with water through a straw, effecting a bizarre cinema water boarding incident.
Everyone but one woman ignores this, because they are watching the movie. They've not noticed that the alcoholic from the movie has stepped from the screen into their reality.
I watch from the screen as the woman gets up to save the alcoholic.
I leave my scene and cycle up a hill where there is a remote house built by a survivalist.
I cross the impressive green grounds where vegetables should really be growing, but instead it's all lawn.
There is a steep drop off one side, which I avoid.
In the modern house, which is grey and square, like blocks placed randomly beside each other and on top of each other, I examine the kitchen and storage areas.
A survival expert enters to help. He gives me advice about the granite sink, surfaces, and storage units.
He is unimpressed, but he says:
"We can make this work."
I observe myself, having turned into a crab during a kind of escape game.
"We're all crawling up together," I say, encouragingly, to the other purple-blue lobster crabs. "That's how it should be."
The gamesmistress tries to help me solve the next puzzle by showing me where to find the means to pick a lock.
Dismayed by our performance, she advises us to avoid the brothel owner.
"People lose hours in there," she warns.
To leave, we all climb up through a trapdoor.
My friend, let's call her Sara, is the last to come.
We ask her to pass up the food before she climbs.
She passes up cake.
"The meat!" one of us yells. "Pass up the meat, love. Meat and frozen things. The meat! Fackin' 'ell."
Sara is feckless. She doesn't follow any of the instructions we give her.
I get frustrated with her, too, until I realize that the door is unlocked and we don't need to use the trapdoor at all.
I open the door for her and she just sits there, crying into her hands.
"Let's go," I say, gently.
She doesn't look up. She sits there, sobbing, until I wake up.
Dean's Dream Journal
My writing is sometimes inspired by my dreams.
"How to Remember Your Dreams" will help you with:
Exchange your front row seat for a starring role.
Available on Amazon.