An awful night of stomach pain and nightmares.
First I dreamt of David Lynch, who was visiting Crewe with a small group of friends, he was relaxing in a shop front, about where Snakey Jake's used to be on Edleston Road. I said hello and we walked together up town. He commented on the different architectural styles of the road, and I mentioned that I did that too. We arrived at a furniture shop on a street corner and we went in, he sat in a luxurious leather office chair. I said he should buy it, he said he'd like to but commented that it would cost him a huge $10,000. I asked him if he'd read any Dali books and he said no, I offered, or was going to offer, to lend him my copies of 50 Secrets or the Dali autobiography, but remembered that I had lent these out.
In a later part of this dream there were some sex parts in a pretty morning-light bedroom with white silk sheets. The woman in question at first seemed interested but kept talking about other things, ignoring my actions and moving around the room. I slept there and had a lucid dream within this dream, a completely different scene. This scene was simple and of a woman on a grass common and some distant houses at night. Another woman was there, larger and closer to me. The effect was something like a computer game or animation, the figures almost being like flat cut-outs. Using my lucid dream telekinetic powers I picked up the distant woman and tried to throw her into the distant sky but couldn't throw her high enough and she crashed into the house roofs. The effect was something like an animation. I awoke from this into the bedroom dream again and discussed it with the people at the breakfast there, which I think included David Lynch. I talked about the lack of ability to fly or throw objects to high heights in dreams. I wondered if gravity was greater in dreams, that the dream universe was a unique and shared dimension with its own physical laws and I asked about their lucid dreams in case they too had similar experiences.
A later dream was more disturbing. I was part of an American military unit on patrol in a dark and desolate wasteland. I was some sort of civilian expert and looked down on by the soldiers. One soldier had to climb onto an object of who brick walls about 2 or 3 metres tall, and over a ladder which was lying horizontally but precariously. It fell and the soldier fell onto his back causing an injury, but he seemed to be okay. There seemed to be traps and danger around. We returned to some sort of indoor base, which was well lit, white walls, perhaps echoing the looks of the film Aliens. Suddenly we were attacked by a rogue officer or perhaps a new enemy. He was wearing normal clothes, and with a machine gun started to kill everyone in a gory manner. I managed to hide under a table.
I survived and the man offered me my life if I, and Deb who was suddenly here, signed my soul to to devil. He showed me an old book and said that Lord Byron was the last one to do this. I opened the book and was keen to read Byron's script, but Deb just wanted to sign, which she did in pen. I only had a pencil and asked for a pen, but was given another pencil, being told that, traditionally, the signature should be made in pencil. I signed 'Mark k', in a strange sigil-like shape. I said that I started to write 'Mark x' instinctively, but thought that adding a kiss was inappropriate. The book was closed but then the man (who now looked like a friend) said that he would now kill us anyway; we were betrayed. He, with a shotgun, and a jackal or other animals, pursued us. I tried to run up some old stairs; I seemed to be in a crumbling and disgusting building, mouldy and rotten, perhaps like the Liverpool asylum or the old Print Mill in Macclesfield. At the top of the stairs was an demonic woman with black snake-like hair and black eyes. The stairs and walls were black with what looked like poppy seeds, thick mould. I knew that it would be fatal to go up there, so after a few steps turned to run elsewhere.
I've slept late as a result of this, missing almost all of the morning and I have no energy for work yet. Perhaps elements of this dream are about my lack of visual art this year. I'm working constantly but my output always feels inadequate, I feel filled with ideas, as ever, an everlasting tumble of white water. I need to invent a day with more than 24-hours.
