Reverie
My dream:
Boring, boring, I know. I'm just keeping my hand in.
I dreamed of ancient China, or at least a thin version of ancient China informed by a few old tv shows, some recent movie trailers and little else.
In a town square, a poor man sat reading a large, leather-bound volume. The book was borrowed by a master scholar in a place of learning which was also a seat of local power. Back in the square, a series of elite warriors faced one another in turn and fought to the death. Some wore costumes and equipment which were elaborate and intricate to the point of impracticality. The fights lasted seconds.
Still, back with the scholars, one such learned man said: 'Give me but one hundred of these master warriors and I will challenge an empire!'
Then, in standard dream fashion, I turned from observer to participant. The first master scholar instructed me to seek the poor man from whom the book had been borrowed, and gave me a message to pass on. The message was cryptic, though doubtless wise, and went on a bit. 'Hang on,' I said to the Master, 'I'll need to write this down'. The sage permitted himself a chuckle.
My nightmare:
Then it was Saturday morning in that other illusory realm we might refer to as wakefulness.
After breakfast I went into town to have my shaggy mane clipped. Incontinent on the subject of impending parenthood, I blabbed to my barber who jested archly on the savings I'd have made if only I'd bought a pack of three. 'And you'd have got to do it another two times', he giggled.
I met Mo and we strolled. She hit her usual retail favourites. Let me tell ya, from outside a pound shop on the Trongate on a Saturday afternoon, you can see the end of civilization as we know it. Is this the world into which we bring our child, I asked myself yet again, pondering the lame and halt, mad and bad of this, a once-major city in the haphazardly propped-up remnants of a former great power...From this spot on the pavement in the centre of town, only the few relatively well-off passers-by look healthy and sane; everyone else appears to be ill. But the children of the well-off are mutilating their faces and everyone's sucking on a cigarette like it's breathing gear, clasping plastic bags of trinkets and gew-gaws. The whole place looks, as they say where Mo's from, powerful failed.
Then we go round the corner and sit for a while. I ingest a little of my own poison, which this afternoon comes by the pint imperial in black liquid form.
May our kid grow up smart and strong.
Boring, boring, I know. I'm just keeping my hand in.
I dreamed of ancient China, or at least a thin version of ancient China informed by a few old tv shows, some recent movie trailers and little else.
In a town square, a poor man sat reading a large, leather-bound volume. The book was borrowed by a master scholar in a place of learning which was also a seat of local power. Back in the square, a series of elite warriors faced one another in turn and fought to the death. Some wore costumes and equipment which were elaborate and intricate to the point of impracticality. The fights lasted seconds.
Still, back with the scholars, one such learned man said: 'Give me but one hundred of these master warriors and I will challenge an empire!'
Then, in standard dream fashion, I turned from observer to participant. The first master scholar instructed me to seek the poor man from whom the book had been borrowed, and gave me a message to pass on. The message was cryptic, though doubtless wise, and went on a bit. 'Hang on,' I said to the Master, 'I'll need to write this down'. The sage permitted himself a chuckle.
My nightmare:
Then it was Saturday morning in that other illusory realm we might refer to as wakefulness.
After breakfast I went into town to have my shaggy mane clipped. Incontinent on the subject of impending parenthood, I blabbed to my barber who jested archly on the savings I'd have made if only I'd bought a pack of three. 'And you'd have got to do it another two times', he giggled.
I met Mo and we strolled. She hit her usual retail favourites. Let me tell ya, from outside a pound shop on the Trongate on a Saturday afternoon, you can see the end of civilization as we know it. Is this the world into which we bring our child, I asked myself yet again, pondering the lame and halt, mad and bad of this, a once-major city in the haphazardly propped-up remnants of a former great power...From this spot on the pavement in the centre of town, only the few relatively well-off passers-by look healthy and sane; everyone else appears to be ill. But the children of the well-off are mutilating their faces and everyone's sucking on a cigarette like it's breathing gear, clasping plastic bags of trinkets and gew-gaws. The whole place looks, as they say where Mo's from, powerful failed.
Then we go round the corner and sit for a while. I ingest a little of my own poison, which this afternoon comes by the pint imperial in black liquid form.
May our kid grow up smart and strong.