Automaton Invasion

The dream has started to fade because I wasn't quick enough writing it down, but about a week ago I had my first real nightmare of 2022. Now and again I'll have a dream of apocalyptic proportions, usually involving impending doom, and very often from the sky. It can be a war breaking out, an otherworldly invasion, a satellite falling towards Earth. The most outrageous to date was an army of mecha-Nazis descending onto university campus from orbit and pulverising all the students with laser guns. My latest dream of this category did not reach the stage where chaos reigned free, but in some ways, this made it all the more stressful.

I was in the city, whether Brighton or London I couldn't say (perhaps an amalgamation of the two, or maybe somewhere else entirely), and I was sitting in a cafe trying to write my novel. The government had been particularly callous of late, doing all the usual things that make people moan such as raising taxes, removing job seeker support, cutting public sector funding, withdrawing resources from the NHS, etc. Anyway, as I do not normally take much interest in these matters, I was wholly unprepared for the news that the UK was arming for war.

This in itself would not have been a matter of immediate concern, but as public panic spread and more speeches from the Prime Minister were broadcast, I realised it was going to affect me in the worst way imaginable. Every citizen, whether eligible or no, was being compulsorily conscripted to the coming war. The government claimed that we faced a threat such as never before seen in the history of our nation. An army of automatons were on their way to annihilate us, not just to conquer, but to wipe us off the map. As the British army had been almost completely eradicated at the first encounter, they needed to swell their ranks with us civilians. 

Obviously, such alarming news was not to my liking. It was plainly obvious that Boris was throwing us to our deaths. There would be no military training, no time for any of that, we were report to the nearest garrison to sign up, be issued our weapons, and deployed without further ado. Certain individuals of high rank, or those who simply curried favour with the party, were being awarded special exemption passes, and it was these that everyone now wanted to get their hands on. Chaos engulfed the streets, riots broke out, and huge bodies of civilians tried to flee overseas.

What was I to do? I had a family to think about, I had no disabilities to announce, nor loopholes to exploit, yet signing up would be suicide. Besides, everybody was being conscripted, able-bodied or not. I was unsurprised to see that the usual left-wing hand wringers had suddenly forgotten to care about the oppressed minority groups, being much too wrapped up in their own cowardice to extend sympathy and outrage elsewhere. I wandered aimlessly, doing my best to avoid the police who were rounding up unwilling conscripts just like me. 'I need to get to China', I decided, but it was too late for that.

This nightmare is a very obvious manifestation of the stress and sense of doom I have been suffering from of late. This has been triggered by more family members catching Covid, the illegal shenanigans at No. 10, bouts of self-inflicted insomnia, and the climate crisis that continues to chip away at our existence, though which is largely ignored. I would also like to blame doom scrolling before bed, and also paedophiles, because why not? 

Beggars and Bears

I was hoping for a good Brighton dream because I enjoy exploring the city's dreamscape and Dadaist architecture. Last night's offering was quite stressful, but there were some incidents worth noting down. Chaos had engulfed Brighton, with anti-lockdown protests and parties springing up all over the city. The authorities were overwhelmed, shops and pubs were overtaken by rowdy punks and anti-vaxxers, whilst the streets crawled with rioters, drug addicts, radicalised beggars, and Chinese grifter gangs taking advantage of the disorder. I roamed these mean streets in the dark, avoiding people whilst trying to carry out obscure errands.

A female heroin addict beseeched me for money to feed and clothe her daughter, reaching skinny, puncture-addled arms towards me. I knew that this particular beggar really did have a neglected child confiscated by social services. A volunteer careworker would often take the kid swimming at the local baths, before lying on the hard tiles to dry off, looking at the stars and dreaming of a better life. I did not give the troubled mother any money, so she shouted obscenities at me, cursing my white male privilege. Next I was accosted by two shady middle-aged Chinese women. They were hustlers trying to sell contraband or trafficked prostitution services, I did not stick around to find out what.

Suddenly desperate for the toilet, I tried to enter a nearby bookshop but it had been turned into a rave venue, with people queuing from all over to get in. Farther on, I ducked into a less popular nightclub and finally secured an empty cubicle. The toilets were covered in graffiti and illuminated by green glowsticks, with two punks in the stall next to me doing drugs. Whilst I relieved my bladder, they stuck their heads up over the top and watched me. I had a full tank to empty and was a captive audience whilst they gloated. I then realised that I was stark naked, a cliche to be sure, and I spent the next part of the dream stumbling around dark alleyways trying to find my clothes. Maybe this was punishment for my lack of charity. 

The dream moved on and I was in an unknown part of America, somewhere close to Canada. I have been there before. The air was cold and crisp, there were coniferous forests and mountains to the north, and everyone lived in sprawling rustic lodges with verandahs. I was working as a postman whilst my daughter attended a theatre trip organised by the local preschool. There was also a big concert featuring a famous singer about to start, but I had no idea who they were. My postal route took me to a row of detached cabins in a scenic part of town, with forest views and a fishing lake close to hand. With each property being so spaced out, my job was taking a long time to do accomplish. 

I looked at my next bundle of mail and saw that it was addressed to Steve Irwin. This surprised me, because the man has been dead these past sixteen years. Nevertheless, I went to the cabin indicated on the address, and started pushing the mail through a vertical letterbox. The door opened before I could finish, and there stood Steve Irwin, dressed in his familiar khaki croc-wrangling gear. Somehow, he had returned, or never died in the first place, and I was too polite to ask. Feeling somewhat sheepish that I had been publicly slandering him on Reddit recently, I handed him his parcel and bid him good day. Halfway down the road, I found some more letters for him that I had missed.

As I dithered on the road, I saw a grizzly bear lurking near the treeline. It did not seem particularly interested in me, but even so, I nervously backtracked to Steve's house. He was ready at the door when I arrived, having seen me from his window. I handed him the remaining letters and asked if the bear's presence was normal. "Yup, perfectly normal, happens everyday mate. They're after our fish!" he replied. I departed a second time and headed to the theatre to collect my daughter. On the way, I reflected on Steve's mysterious reappearance. His wife and family were still in Australia, so I wondered whether they had separated, or could he have purposefully faked his own death and gone into hiding?

Ruminating thus, I stepped out onto a playing field I needed to cross to reach the theatre. It had been freshly turfed and was excessively springy underfoot. I jumped to test its springiness and bounced half a foot into the air as though it were a trampoline. This was so much fun, and I began to bounce up and down like a child. Behind me I noticed a girl from university, on her way to the concert. I felt self-conscious that she had seen me bouncing on the grass, but then immediately thought to myself, 'so what?' I bounded a few more times to prove that I didn't care. 

Cooksbridge Living

Since my first update I have dreamt about a seedy establishment in Brighton, a shameful rerun of my sister's wedding in Nottingham, and a depressing house party in Cooksbridge. None of these were sufficiently wholesome or engaging enough to write down. Last night's dream barely qualifies either, dealing as it does with incipient provincial affairs. However, it is a good establishing scenario.

I moved to Cooksbridge in 2019, and since then have had only a handful of dreams about the place, usually involving a haunting. These days, I am unworried about using real place names. My trolling days are long over and the threat level of undesirables tracking me down is low, especially if I can bore them to death first. Hopefully this dream can manage it.

I was new to the area, as were my neighbours, and we were attending social events to integrate ourselves with the community. In real life, Cooksbridge is a sleepy rural village with a low population. Farm shops, pubs, and a petrol station are the sole amenities. In the dream, the place was more of a bustling market village. It was mid summer, and the fields were green and gold.

The old guard were visiting me from Colchester, Dylan and Charlie, and we spent some time in Lewes looking for places to have breakfast. Back in Cooksbridge, we attended a farmer's market, which took place in the beer garden of a fictitious pub. I was dressed in an ornate, red silk suit, and many flat-capped, cider-sipping locals turned their heads in my direction. I was worried lest my friends got drunk and made a bad impression.

My neighbour Helen was also at the pub, and we had a long chat over a bottle of wine. The farmers seemed wary but intrigued about the presence of strangers in their midst. When it was time to leave, several of them came over to introduce themselves and to ask our names, crushing my hand with meaty, calloused handshakes. One of them, an aged gentleman farmer (we'll call him Bill) seemed particularly interested in Helen.

My sisters paid their visits to me next, and it's worth noting that my house was not the one I live in. It was a rambling country homestead surrounded by fields and orchards. As I sat in the open access garden, Bill passed by and beckoned me over for a chat. He asked many pointed questions about Helen, and I gleaned that he was sizing her up as a prospective wife. I tried to discourage him, but for some reason did not impart that she was already married.

When I talked to Helen again later in the dream, she complained of his unwanted attentions, but also claimed she was treading carefully. Bill was an influential, respected member of the community and she did not want her family to be ostracised so soon after moving there. I wished her luck and returned to my house. My eldest sister had arrived and we began to bicker over who would use the bathroom first. Sometimes dreams can be a little too realistic for my liking.

Welcome to 2022

My first dream of 2022 involved me returning to my bedroom at my parents' house in Wivenhoe. This was the first room I lived in when we moved to the house (dubbed Heartbreak Hotel) some twenty-two years ago. I was fifteen and angry about moving away from Plymouth when I had pending GCSEs. 

The bedroom was on the ground floor, adjoining the bathroom, and it was the smallest in the house. I would later move upstairs, but a lot of my formative moments happened in that first boxroom. It was here that I sulked and schemed in my teenage angst, here that I received my horror film education courtesy of Channel 4, and here that... well I won't go into all that.

In the dream, I was on my computer Zooming with Film Club, listening to music and drinking, unaware of the time. Just like last night, it was New Year's Eve. I may have dozed off for a short while, and before I knew it, the sun was up and the new year had dawned. As is often the case in dreams, I was enrolled on a sixth form course that I rarely showed up for, a guilt I'm convinced stems from not finishing some modules and coursework in my third year of college. 

My mother called me out of bed, reminding me not to miss class. I trudged into the kitchen, dehydrated from the booze, and seeking orange juice. After drinking what I could find, I ransacked the fridge and retrieved a jar which turned out to be pickled potatoes floating in a viscous orange fluid. I returned it to the fridge in disgust.

My plan that day had been to cycle to college to attend class, but the uncharacteristically warm weather turned my head. Rather than waste time studying, I decided that I was in need of New Year purification. I took my daughter with me and we boarded a bus, full of refugees, bound for lower Wivenhoe. The bus dropped us off in the car park of the village's Community Centre, right on the coast. As the refugees retrieved their luggage from the bus, I took my daughter across the car park to look at the sea. 

In real life, Wivenhoe ends at the river Colne, in the dream it was sheer granite cliffs rising around us, enclosing a natural harbour. We scanned the incoming tide, looking for marine mammals. Gulls swooped among the breakers, and clusters of people in skimpy swimwear stretched and perched upon the jagged rocks, or bobbed in the water, oblivious to the chill they must have felt. The ocean has a very significant place in my dreams, something you will come to see if you read this blog enough.

I told my daughter that we would spend the night at the Community Centre with the refugees, lying on the floor in sleeping bags. A sign at the entrance put an end to such ideas, informing us that the space was strictly reserved for the use of foreigners. I am not so much interested in psychoanalysing my dreams as I am recording the loose narratives and observing what themes emerge over time. I hope the enterprise proves fruitful.