It's all in the Mind

I write this primarely as a research exercise to find out weather or not I am actually dreaming. If I am dreaming then hopefully it won't publish, and I'm not then I'm letting myself know how I feel before I forget.

Out clubbing last night, and my brain is still in pieces. The whole experience feels like a dream. Very strong mind medcines involved and a very trippy ride.

Dancing, hot, sweaty, smiling, sunglasses, lazer light. In the thick of the crowd I start to see people wearing masks. Prosthetic faces. Plastic, not real. This was a crazy trick for my subconcious to play on my mind at a moment of complete inability to fight the drugs.

"Find your neutral space and go with it" - that was Danny from Withnail and I. Easy to say but inside a club of pumping music it's hard to find any space at all, let alone neutral space and whatever happens there's not much going with it to be done.

Disaster, but luckely this surreal dreamlike effect hadn't happened to the comrads - they looked fine, but everybody else had nasty, plastic masks, flesh toned but their faces were featurless. Strange. 2D. Lacking humanity.

Lights flash, this dream passes and we are outside. A White BMW pulls up beside us and a lady asks me for the time. I do not hear her. My input/output signals are mashed and my subconcious is hemriging into concious. I can't formulate a reply above "Pardon", and bend over to look through the slowly, electrically unwinding windows. Inside this near, passenger side seat was a lady, mid 30's with bright lipstick, dressed to look younger. Big hair and latino/ eastern european skin tone. The experience from inside the club seaped back and time appeared not to be constant. It comes in waves and all of a sudden my brain catches up with what I have been doing. The lady's skin.... what tone was it? Difficult to say, she was caked in makeup.

Mental interfearance. What is going on? Is this real or are we dreaming? I could not be sure. I had an idea of the time; somewhere around 8am, the place? Farringdon, around the back of Turnmills. Could this be a passing thought I am having when I was previously smoking a joint on the bench at the top of the alley? Have my thoughts been taking my mind prisoner and letting themselves live a rebelious life beyond my control?

Focus. Snap Back.

The woman licks her lips.

"Pardon?"

I lean into the car. Sitting in the driver seat is a stern looking lady with affro skin.

"Do you have the time?", and her hand slipped sveltly down and pulled her skirt up, revealing her cleanly shaven cunt. "Do you want my cunt? - ". Stop. Is this part a dream? It feels like reality, albeit under the spell of clouds of electric fire in my brane, heightening my perceptions of line, colour and contrast. Her lips appeared a sleezy red, crimson red, blood red. Hair, long and parted just to one side, then flowing down her shoulders with the volume of an advert for hair-care products. As the window fully retracted, the waft of cheap perfume graced my nose, and the interior - plush red, crushed velvet seats became apparant.

Pointing at me with a stick, the lady in the driver seat indicated to myself and my three amigos: "All three of you, with her". Was this a joke? A setup? I feel unusual. I must get out of this situation, but no connection could be made between my brain and my body. Stumble over a word. Form a sound. Try to make the sound sound like a sound that others would recognise as speech.

"No, thankyou kindly for the offer"... these words spake thus in a manor which bunched up the beginning of the sentence into a garbled splatter of tongue on teeth, then drew out the sentense end in an uneasy, unsure fashon and an Australian question inflection.

The car is flung into first gear and drives swiftly away.

Was it real? had that just really happened. I have met prostitutes before, many a time in soho - hanging around bars at closing time, standing in doorways with a cigarette and coffee in the summer afternoons. But not like this. In my current state I had only deep reds, crimsons and plush texture offset by caked makeup and a pure white BMW. Contrast, saturation, hue. Horrible. The dream had been shattered with feelings of sleeze, dirt and images of genetal warts, HIV and other sexually transmitted desieases. Why had we stumbled down this alley, and were we going to get out of it or be trapped, blocked in and incarserated for a brush with the underbelly of the city's night time characetures of lust even while in the harsh light of the morning.

Bannanas. What lush fruit and good for the recovering body. wash them down with water as the tube carrages squeel and rat-a-tat-tat. We travel to michaels' digs. Uni diggs, they all smell the same and with the smell comes the comforting feeling that you are within hallowed ground. Rarely do police storm university halls. The swathes of cannabis smoke come wafting through the corridoors, even at ten in the morning. Had it been two hours? Where had the time gone? How did it take two hours to get from Farringdon to Wood Green? What was happening to time and who had taken control?

We speak little, each and every-one trying not to face up to the harsh reality of not being able to finish a sentense. Not being able to finish a thought to it's end. Always jumping to the next conversation and never finishing the one in hand. We carry on like this for three hours. The drugs are still, most definately in command of our senses. Stumble.... what was I doing? Twenty minutes later and the cup of tea is still not made. Why am I in the kitchen? and who put these mugs here? Horrible. Old Age. Dementia. There will be, not more finished thoughts in this brain.


Starchamber note - make the cardboard people warp and turn into real people. The hero character destroyes his home-made computer system at the end and the "room set", revolves to reveil that he is actually inside the strip-club watching himself watch himself on stage.