Beethoven Conference

It was a Sunday and I was playing DayZ when Li reminded me that I was due at the university for an interview on Beethoven that I'd signed up for. The classical music association was looking for gamers to offer their input on the great composer. The process involved mailing my PS2 to them, to prove that I was a gamer. My acceptance letter was included in the return parcel and I saw that the other participants had all dropped out, leaving me as the last remaining guest. I had been promoted to lead speaker, and I was to head the all day conference, running from 9am to 5pm in the evening, followed by refreshments.

I arrived at the university as a bundle of nerves, having had no time to prepare anything. I took my place at the lectern in the lecture theatre, which weirdly, was in the middle of the tiered seating, so everyone in front had to look behind them to see me. I don't remember how I opened the conference, but I must have stated everything I knew about Beethoven in those first fifteen minutes. When I ran out of material, my voice began to falter, my speech became incoherent, and eventually the flight response kicked in. I fled to the back of the lecture hall, at the top of the seats, where some changing rooms awaited.

Once inside, I changed out of my suit and into an informal yellow t-shirt with jeans, hoping to blend in with the student crowd and make my escape. Since abandoning the mic, some students had been invited up to read their poems, and a pianist played a few of Beethoven's pieces. I slid awkwardly over the backs of the seats to get to the bottom of the theatre. On my way, I saw a lot of sterm looking men in top hats, seated towards a shadowy alcove at the back of the hall. In addition to these sombre audience members, there were was a university sports team, and a gaggle of summer school students.

I sank into a chair on the front row and tried to make myself small. It was to no avail, for the moment I was spotted, the woman organising the conference reinvited me to retake the mic. A burst of andrenaline took over, and I decided to end this harrowing case of imposter syndrome and admit the truth. I reached the lectern, and in a shaky voice, I admitted that I had no idea why I was here, or what I was expected to do. Before I could complete my sentence, the pianist jumped in with an aggressive sonata and drowned me out. I waited, defeated, furiously wracking my brain for more things to say about Beethoven.

I remembered the famous quotation, 'written from the heart, may it go to the heart' but I wasn't confident that I had it down correctly. Fortunately, my daughter woke me up from the nightmare at that point, at 5am in the morning. I had never been more relieved to hear her crying.

Wooden Boy

I have lately been watching various Pinocchio adapations, there seem to be a lot of them around at the moment. It was only inevitable, therefore, that I had a Pinocchio inspired dream. I was a volunteer at a live theatre company, along with other members of the public, who would queue up to perform with the same troupe. The gig was to play the titular character of Pinocchio, allowing the actors to dictate the narrative and be swept along for the experience, almost like a paid 'actor for a day' scheme.

I forget the opening scenes of the play, but my memory kicks in when Pinocchio (me) was visited by a doctor with a waistcoat and pocket watch. The actor playing the doctor was clearly homosexual, and whilst performing the farcical gestures with me, involving a health inspection (which was supposed to be funny, because Pinocchio is made of wood), he surreptitiously molested me. I did not know if this groping was part of the play, or something the actor was doing to signal his interest, but I firmly pushed his hand away and the show went on without interruption. 

The doctor pretended to bleed me, and getting into the spirit of proceedings, I performed an exaggerated swoon and feigned a collapse. To revive me, I was led to some tables where chefs were serving up real platters of hot food. I looked over all the appetising stews, soups, and noodle dishes, asking for generous helpings from each. The joke here was that puppets do not need to eat. I indulged in some small talk, telling the catering staff about how fussy my daughter was.

The next part of the show was the big puppet threatre set piece, run by the abusive gypsy Stromboli. It was the same actor who played the doctor, in even more fanciful attire, replete with silken cuffs, frills, curled wig and pompadour makeup. He placed some glasses on my face and painted blue spirals on them, then he took my cheeks in his hands and crooned about how I would be his masterpiece. He whispered in my ear "no strings." The innuendo laden wordplay was not lost on me. The other puppets put on a bawdy, provacative performance to 'I've got no strings', much to the amusement of the audience. This involved the puppets performing a copulation dance with  painted wooden breasts and genitalia on display.

For the next scene, Stromboli grew angry with Pinocchio and tried to discard him. I was thrown into a metal airduct, which I was supposed to squeeze through before ending up in the trash. The duct was far too narrow for a person to fit into, so I climbed out and scuttled over to the refuse pile instead. Because I had held things up, the actor playing Pinocchio behind me (remember that this was conveyor belt theatre) was emerging from the duct at that time, and landed painfully on his face. There was now no guidance for what I was supposed to do, so I wandered between metal pipes and dusty walkways until a Dickensian London gang caught me up and introduced me to rough-living street life, complete with energetic song and dance.

I had played my role rather woodenly up until this point, not wanting to take the shine away from the real actors, but now I got really into the performance and acted my heart out. When the show ended, I was given a resounding applause, and even won the prize for best participant role out of all the volunteers. Nonetheless, the molestation had made the experience not worth it in the end.

Jewish Parade

In my dreams I own a property in Wivenhoe, a small bungalow inherited from my late Nana. The property has remained stable throughout all the twists and turns of the dreamscape, always in the same location, near the top of Wivenhoe high street. It was to feature again in last night's dream, but only briefly. I was visiting Colchester to see family, planning to stay Wednesday to Sunday at my friend Dan's house, who was also in Wivenhoe. Before I could settle in, his uncle unexpectedly visited, who also wanted to stay with Dan. Because there was only one spare room, I was rather forcibly persuaded to concede the room to his uncle. It was at that point I remembered about my own property, so the situation was resolved, and unpleasantness avoided.

I discovered that my parents had sold all of their dogs, every last one. I was very surprised about this, as the dogs have always been my Mammy's pride and joy. She was tired of them barking, weeing everywhere, and destroying the house, so one day she snapped and put them all up for sale. I told her that it was cruel on Pierre, the eldest dog, who is suffering badly from arthritis. The younger dogs would have no problem finding a new home, but Pierre was too big and too old. I also discovered that she had given my Nana's dog, Bonnie, who I owned in the dream, to my sister Camella. I asked if I could have her back, as she usually stayed at the bungalow. They said she had developed a disorder where twice a day she would gush ambiotic liquid down her hind legs and make puddles all over the floor, whilst convulsing in pain. This rather put me off, but I pushed my claim.

Later that afternoon, I visited the town with my family. I had heard there was a Harry Potter shopping street newly opened, and my daughter, who is a big fan, wanted to go. Before I could find it, a black man wearing an elaborate costume came strutting into town. His wardrobe was a cross between an Egyptian king in leopard print toga, and a Brazilian carnival dancer with a plumed headdress. He announced that it was the Jewish Parade, to celebrate the rich diversity and mythology of Jewish culture. More people arrived, all looking like figures from the Bible, or oriental kings and barbarians. The leader of the parade shouted, "Bring in the Hierophants!" Great beasts lumbered up the street in single file. They walked on two legs but had the grey and wrinkled aspect of elephants, heads resembling hooded cobras, with small pouting mouths ringed by sharp teeth. On their backs they carried sacks that look suspiciously as though they contained human bodies.

"I don't remember these from Jewish mythology," I commented to one of my sisters. As they plodded past us, I had a chance for a closer look, and they appeared more serpent-like, but with a hint of manta-ray. Their fluted mouths were rather like a lamprey's. I learned that the sacks on their backs did indeed contain people, who were in a state of torpor and would later be transferred to a spot beneath the creature's hoods, held in place with a sticky residue. The person would slowly fuse with the flesh of the Hierophant, becoming embalmed in a fleshy cocoon. Typically the hood of the creature would remain closed during the day and only fan open at night, where the victim would be 'aired', a process necessary for the digestion process, which was in indeed their ultimate fate, to be absorbed by the creature. The victims would turn putrid shades of yellow and green as their nutrients were slowly siphoned away. 

Gliding into 2023

My first notable dream of 2023 was a wholesome one as far as my dreams usually go. I was using a PSVR (PlayStation Virtual Reality) device to experience Elon Musk's play boy activities through his eyes. The technology had been updated to the degree where you could actually experience all 5 sensations of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch in a real life situation, as though you were actually there. In this scenario, Musk was riding an electric Tesla moped, a new invention of his, on the top of a huge military cargo plane. He was live broadcasting the stunt to Twitter, inviting anyone to use their VR headsets to tap in. I was describing the experience to a friend, Mr Robot, over mic, who had yet to make the plunge. Comments on the livestream came pouring in. Musk's sychophants gushed about how inspirational he was, whilst his detractors complained it was a reckless, dangerous, self-indulgent and expensive thing to do whilst so many people were struggling with rising living costs.

Elon drove the moped back and forth over the plane, which was soaring at an altitude of over a thousand feet. Bumping along the riveted metal hulk, I looked down but could only see snatches of ocean through the cloud cover. A helicopter hovered over the proceedings, dangling a handle at the end of a cord, which Musk could grab onto should things go pear shaped. Musk was having far too much fun to be cautious, and he let go of the grip to exert greater control over the moped. New comments condemned Musk for performing the stunt on a prototype vehicle that hadn't been fully tested, whilst petrol heads ranted about the 'soyness' of electric vehicles. As exhilarating as the experience was, I've never had a head for flying, and the greatest enjoyment was yet to come. Having tired of his aerial sports, like a kid throwing away one toy for the novelty of a new one, Musk had the airforce land him in the ocean and leave him alone on an electrically powered catamaran. 

The craft was controlled by dipping pedals, causing a sail to inflate and catch the wind from various angles. I/Musk went zipping along over the gentle swell in all directions, enjoying the feeling of the rushing wind on our faces, and the spray of water as we made sharp turns. I tweaked my VR interface to try and shareplay the experience with Mr Robot, wanting him to be as equally wowed. He had trouble connecting, so I had to describe the breathtaking experience on the fly. Before long, the catamaran was joined by a school of inquisitive common bottlenose dolphins. I saw their metallic grey heads with white under markings poking above the surface for a peek. Despite their friendly nature, I didn't want to get too close, and it was at that moment I realised I was no longer a passive voyeur, but now had control over the craft. This was some next level immersion. Ripples in the water indicated shoals of fish that the dolphins were corralling into bait balls. My feets were under the water, and as I sliced through them, I felt the stinging impact of tiny fish. I pulled my feet up onto the board, as I don't care for fish. The sensations of freedom and freshness were beyond words, and my awakening came far too soon.