Voice of an Angel

In the far corner of a municipal hall Marilyn Monroe mumbles a short smutty joke. She delivers it so badly with so little confidence that nobody listens or they are a bit embarrassed.

Then she starts to sing, and all her self consciousness evaporates. I can't remember the song but it is one that she is famous for, and she sings with such simplicity that every note is golden and clear and wraps you in honey. Everyone is entranced and lingers over each split second. It is the voice of an angel and brings tears to my eyes.

Uncovering Forgotten Powers

I am in a huge builders merchants' yard. Workmen are milling around, busy on an important task - something has to be found out, uncovered.
I pick up a plastic bag with plumbing connections in it.
"Leave them alone," I am told, "don't want you meddling with that."
I just seem to be in the way.

Then I find a stack of old papers, all in handwriting that is not easy to decipher. It goes back years. I am convinced this has the answer to everything the men are searching for and I say to one of them,
"Let me look through these, I am sure I will find the truth here."  The men are a bit dismissive, they don't share my conviction but they are happy for me to take this dusty heap away.
As I start to look through it my heart sinks, there is so much there and it's really hard to read, I'll never get anywhere.

Slowly I begin to sift through the paperwork, writing down each tiny detail. A woman (about 30-35 with long straight hair) sits with me.
"Let's work out what this is all about. Someone's life is at stake- its about someone's life, a record." (I see an image of Beachy Head cliffs.) The documents seem to be about this woman.

Now I find pictures and objects within this pile of papers- there are three knitting needles, maybe 2'6"long,  and they are covered in knitted wool in soft,"feminine" pastel shades of flame. The needles remind me of bullfighting spikes or spears or something to do with electricity like lightning rods.

"This was the beginning - one of many projects that never led anywhere." The woman laughs and admits it was another fruitless project. (Am I slightly contemptuous of her? Do I think she doesn't have it in her to create anything deep, anything meaningful?)

There are receipts in this collection. She must have been working, she must have earnt this - sums like £320 and another for a bit less. Modest sums.
"Is there a date?" I ask the woman. We look and I arrange them in order.

The pictures I find are black and white newspaper cuttings collaged together and now a heap of old sepia family photos that I drop on the stone floor. I try to pick them up in order but muddle them a bit - never mind, I should be able to sort them out.

I am annoyed that I wake up before the puzzle is solved. There are pages of this novel, for that is what it is, that are maybe in german or russian.  (So many times I start a book only to give up because the language is too hard.) This will be difficult language to decode but I know I can and must do it.


This dream has been interpreted by three eminent Jungian analysists -  a very exciting process - the results of which can be viewed on Carla Young's excellent blogsite here.

Curious Case

I am on the outside 

or am I way down far far below looking up?

Russian Vine Disease

I go to the hospital ward. B is still there despite it being time for him to leave the bed. There are loads of people around.

So E should be next in the bed - he is typically nowhere to be seen- is he late or just not bothering to turn up? It's such a boring problem, his Russian Vine disease, I can hardly blame him, it's just one of those recurrent things, but you've got to keep on top of it.

Crotchet Drawing

C and I are making drawings of a piece of Elgar's music. My old french teacher Mr H pours us copious glasses of champagne and we feel deliriously happy.

Our ink is running out and Mr H is reluctant to give us any of his. He has an idea -  he will search for a later part of the music which will not require so much ink- I think he must mean that it has more minims and quavers rather than crotchets.

I secretly think that as he will be buying our drawings anyway he should give us his ink so we can get on with it.

Alan Turing Erotica

A paper covered in diagrams which reduce obscene erotic acts to mathematical formulae.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Turing

Basement Access

Because of the crazy driverless lorries, the pavements are no longer safe, and we are forced to walk along high ledges, parapets and rooves.

My shadowy partner is more fit than me jumping up athletically; I just can't do it.

We decide the other option is to travel through the city basements avoiding danger that way. A special booklet is provided which is like a kind of basement passport.

I don't think it will work - I am sure no-one will know what it is.

Poor Man's Meal

I eat off a plate piled high with baked potato, some indiscernible cabbage and a few baked beans.  There is a stack of three closed tins covered in a strange pattern reminiscent of the fabric design of London Tube seats. They are like a small pillar of precious metal looming out of this mound of too much potato.

Lairy Couple

I'm sitting in the luggage compartment of an old-fashioned train watching a mother and her teenage son playing together in the next carriage. They fight and he pulls a plastic bag down over her head. Their behaviour becomes more raucous and erotically charged. I realise she is not his mother but must be an older girlfriend.