Thursday 27 August
I’ve been forced to stay an extra day in Tbilisi before a potentially tough hitch to Yerevan in Armenia. This is partly to do with my own misdemeanors, which I’m not going to divulge here. You can damn well wait for the book. Remind me. This is also as a result of not being able to find any of my stuff, as the hostel staff have taken it upon themselves to play hide-and-seek with it, and it’s taken me all day to sleep off the previous weekend, and find everything I own.
Which I guess is entirely my fault on both parts, as I have a tendency to create a sort of bomb crater with my belongings, in order to mark ones territory. So, I’ve been investigating the whereabouts of my underwear, and sitting head in hands at the shame I subjected upon myself over the last few days. Again, you’re going to have to wait for that tale of filth and woe.
So as a result I’ve nothing new I’m willing to tell you. But it just so happens that my sister posted the picture below on her instagram earlier today. This was taken shortly after I finished drama school, and I was attempting to ply my trade with outdoor Shakespeare, circa 2004. The still here is from my role as an Indian Sadhu version of The Soothsayer, in the sweeping epic of Antony and Cleopatra.
I had a lot of fun with that part. He’s a fortune teller of sorts, and coincidentally enough (and no word of a lie), I was going to regale you today with a series of freaky dreams I had last night. And also because I’ve got sod-all better to post, and I want to milk it for all it’s worth. It’s a tenuous link but a link nonetheless. So get yourself a coffee or some booze, sit back, relax, indulge me, and understand that not one iota of what I write below is fabricated.
I’m sitting on a sofa in a field full of sofas. The skies are dark and grey, and the wind is making the viridian grass sway violently. I become aware that every sofa in the field has a large, blonde Russian woman sitting on it, caked in make-up, wearing fishnet stockings. Now they’re not obese, but they’ve certainly got substance, and they’re all very attractive. I turn to my right to realise there’s someone lying under a blanket on the sofa close to mine. Instantly I know who it is, although all I can see are her feet. It’s my mum.
Then a man in a suit appears and demands that the Russian lady to my left returns his Manu Chao album.
The field gives way to what I think was a building site. The skies are still overcast, the buildings are crumbling, there’s graffiti adorning every wall. I’m at a concert of some aging European rock star, with a blue shirt and gray hair. There’s an overarching sense of tension. I begin to notice the crowd are aggressive, but the only way I can flee – is by trying to fly. Yet every-time I do, I can’t control it, and I jump too high. One of my greatest fears (which will likely never come to be realised), is that moment you potentially leap too high on the surface of the moon, and float off into space forever. Horrible. Unable to control the gravity, I’m desperately reaching for and grasping at the crumbling buildings, clinging on for dear life. Repetitively I can’t get it right, like some superhero learning how to fly and failing miserably. Legs in the air, fingertips clawing at chalk.
Meanwhile the hostile crowd below are throwing large, black volcanic rocks at my head.
I find myself in a wooden floored, stone walled, old crofters cottage. It’s still dark, in a sort of brown, dirty, medieval hue. There’s a significant number of very old people standing in the room facing me. I can’t make out their faces, but they’re laughing, and it’s me telling the jokes. I’m the life and soul of the party. An ancient face leers in close to mine and mumbles something I’m annoyed I don’t remember. I loudly reply:
“Well that’s because you’re all coffin dodgers isn’t it?!”
Nobody laughs. Not a sound is heard. I want the world to swallow me up.
Now this was astounding; I literally felt embarrassed. I know it. I turned bright red. In my sleep is was convinced I turned bright red. I’ve never been mortified in all my waking life. People stop laughing. Faces drop. Nobody is impressed. I hear a younger, more sinister voice just next to me whisper:
“I bet you wanted them to move on from that one didn’t you?”
I ask one of the old women about my filthy muddy jeans, covered in muck. She tells me not to worry, because I can always get new ones.
I’m in a military uniform, trying to destroy German fighter planes on an airfield, sometime around 1942. I’m only able to use my hands. Flapping at tail rudders with my hands. About the same moment, I consider that a time travel story about the Massacre of Glencoe would do well at the box office.
Things take a turn for the worse, and this, apart from every episode of sleep paralysis, is the most terrifying thing I’ve experienced subconsciously. Of all these dream scenes, there was always a through line of impending doom. I’m at a local store in India. There’s a crush. I’m surrounded by dark-skinned locals, all reaching for me with hands, fists and baseball bats. I feel them. I can’t breath in my sleep. It’s terrifying. I’m convinced I’m there, in real time, about to be torn apart by the screaming, baying mob. I manage to fight free, only for a man to swing what should be a killing blow.
With a roll of Christmas wrapping paper.
I wake up shortly after.
Now when I went to sleep, I was on top of the bed sheet, my head on a pillow, and lying underneath the duvet cover. When I woke up, my head was under two pillows, I was lying on the bare mattress (the bed sheet nowhere to be found) and I was INSIDE the duvet cover. Cocooned. Like a sleeping bag. Mental. Fascinating. And all, once again I assure you dearest readers; 100% true. The power of the unconscious mind eh? Just why couldn’t it have been a hardcore porn fantasy with Eva Green, the hot chick from Two Broke Girls and the dude who played Oberyn Martell?!
It should be noted that no drugs were taken during the making of these dreams, however previously I had read a number of X-Men comics online, been involved in breaking up a fight, and watched several episodes of Doctor Who.
Thank you for reading my cheeky chums. I hope you garnered a touch of entertainment from my tempestuous psyche. Normal service resumes tomorrow and it’s back to travel. Leg 42: Tbilisi to Yerevan. The search for Spock continues…Read More