Sometimes my dreams are like cathedrals. I don’t mean they’re tall and old, I mean that they have so many details, you couldn’t possibly comprehend them in one lifetime - angels and devils at play on every surface. And somehow, in my lucidity, I can take all of this in not only in one lifetime, but in a few moments of sleep. So why is it that as soon as I wake up they crumble and fall, and all I’m left with are millenia-old foundations torn by ivy, lashed by wind and vandalised by passers-by. Take, for example, the other night - I was reading a magazine profile of… I can’t remember who. I can remember the exact sleeping moment that the lucidity hit me, when I realised how funny it was that some part of my brain had conjured up this entire article, which I was reading word-for-word, my mind had created the environment in which I was reading it, where every fleck of paint on the wall was visible and slight changes in air pressure, temperature, humidity, breeze… I noticed them all, which of course I never do in real-life. And then last night… meeting up with…. someone, I think based upon Jan… climbing out of the house and through the woods and ferns to his tent, the dead turkey-bird-eagle-things under the trees, every feather picked out, the cloying bird-shit limewash mess dumped over them, the blades of grass bent beneath them. The points I wanted to add to the conversation about Kettering and Bristol, but couldn’t get a word in edgeways. All of these things are shadows now, but at the time they were made so much more real, realer than real, by the accompanying details. And then the guinea pigs and the bleach…. nyeeurgh… no, that one’s still far too clear in my mind.
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