Monday, 29 March 2010

Dream, Hallucination or Prediction?

Last night I had trouble sleeping. This is nothing new. I haven't slept properly in seven years. There comes a point when I am so tired I cannot function. Words. Backwards. Become. Spots appear around me and I reach out to grab them, thinking they're weird alien beings come to eat me alive. Then come the tears. I weep and moan- wallow in self pity, cry and pray to a God I don't believe in. 'Why God, Why? Why won't you let me sleep? I hate you.' This is the point where I pass out face down into my pillow. Maybe He really does exist. Or a She. Possibly an It. I fear I'm going off point here...

I had a dream. I discovered the secret to time travel. Or was it a dream? Maybe I hallucinated. Maybe my brain was so fed up with being awake 24 hours a day that it created this weird story to keep itself occupied- to pass the time. Perhaps I unlocked the psychic inside and can only make predictions about the future during an insomnia-ridden daze. A bit like the psychics who can only predict things with a twenty pound note in their hands.

In my dream there was a chart about time continuums, followed by a long vomit-inducing algebraic equation. On a table sat a box that looked like a modified version of the Flux Capacitor. After all, that is what makes time travel possible.

Doc Brown wasn't there. Neither was Marty McFly. But Steven Spielberg was. I felt that Back to the Future is masquerading as a piece of fiction when really, it's fact. I think Spielberg did find the secret to time travel and it really does involve a 1981 DeLorean. This is more plausible than a phone box as Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure suggests. Now that's just stupid.

Please note this is a re post. Normal blogging service will resume shortly...

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

I dreamed a thousand new paths but woke and walked my old one

For some time I have felt awash with the tedium of routine. The longer it lingered, the more its weighty grip choked and squeezed me dry. Drip by drip everything fled- inspiration, motivation, purpose. So I decided to set myself a challenge. Step away from my electronic life and embrace the world beyond it. Could I exist one week without modern comforts and would it give me the inspiration I craved?

Day 1. Instead of my usual routine- computer on, check emails, search jobs- I go for a walk. The wind is brutal with my curly hair, rain blistering against skin and my shell quivers. But it feels good. There is something quite freeing- exhilarating- about full lungs of fresh air. By the time I reach home, fingers pink and numb, a new idea simmers and I feel like I'm on to something. I go to bed and read a book by candlelight. As golden flames lick shadows, the story leaks inspiration. If I'm going to embrace this simple life and live like Walden, I won't do it by halves.

Day 2. Bypass the computer and march outside. The elements are far more forgiving and the sun welcomes me with a warm hand. I buy a stack of newspapers and sit reading headlines and job descriptions. I usually do this online- quickly- eyes roam speedily and I click link after link until I arrive at a different subject entirely. Who says you can't link a PA job in Hammersmith to a 1979 Pink Floyd album? But there's no option of that in Greenwich Park, with black fingerprints and a pile of paper yet to feel the wrath of my Dad's recycling mission.

Day 3. Job centre. World's slowest typist tells me to continue my search online. 'No,' I say. 'I'm not using the Internet this week.' She glares. 'And why is that?' I hesitate. 'I'm hoping it will inspire me- not using the computer or watching TV. I feel a bit overloaded with information and need a break from it.' She sighs. 'Don't we all, dear. Don't we all.' The walk home is lengthy but full of people and I watch like I'm watching TV. I just wish I had a remote.

Day 4. Desperate to check emails, I almost crack. Somehow, willpower awakens and I throw a bed-sheet over the computer, as if that will help. My netbook appears- shiny, compact- attracting me like a Magpie. But I've come too far. Later, mum asks if I can find out about an Actor and again- the lure of Google almost proves too much. 'Sorry- the Internet Movie Database will have to wait.' Damn.

Day 5. I feel tranquil. My brain works efficiently and I am fully accustomed to writing with a pen again. At first my handwriting was a brutal scrawl needing its own translator. But now it is delicate and beautiful and I imagine my pen is a quill and my tea-stained paper is really very old. Add these to candlelight and maybe I will write like Shakespeare. Re-reading my work later, I find that perhaps it does have too many malapropisms and oxymorons. Hmmm.

Day 6. Worry sets in. Have not written my blog for a week nor have I read any. Emails probably stacking up too. And mum is still on about that bloody Actor. I hesitate before ripping off the bed-sheet, rubbing the screen like it's my precious. Oh Google. How I missed you.

Well, reader. You can't say I didn't try...

Monday, 8 March 2010


A major search is underway for inspiration, reported missing last week. Inspiration was last seen in a feisty struggle with imagination, creativity and common sense, all of which compete for attention daily. With each passing hour, there are growing concerns that it may never return.

'Inspiration can take many forms. Some days it is a book, a painting, or a walk in the park. Often it is a musical score or a burst of madness.' This constant evolution of identity is proving troublesome for those involved in the search.

Described by many as a stimulation of the mind and, often, a brilliant idea, inspiration has been likened to a bolt of lightning or a 'light-bulb' moment. It is known for leaving in times of difficulty and has earned the reputation of 'fair-weather friend.'

Yesterday, however, LiveWriteDream begged for its safe return. 'The nights are the hardest. When I can't sleep, inspiration usually helps me. It fills my time and allows me to write the hours away- a faithful companion. Without it, I am nothing.'

Anyone with information regarding its sudden disappearance is asked to contact LiveWriteDream immediately.

Tuesday, 2 March 2010

The Perfect Day

It was the perfect day to dump a body. Steel grey sky. Mist poured heavy from the heavens and fogged thicker at the feet. Rain lashed and speared flesh. All this worked in our favour. Today, people would stay inside. They'd seek the warmth of the fire. The closeness of the kettle and stove. The distraction of the TV. Of course, that wouldn't include the work crowd. But we had a plan for that. I thought of everything. He doesn't do much. He just stands there looking pretty. Even that's pretty hard.

The clock read 9.25. Peeping between the rags we call curtains, I checked that everything was in place. Car 10 yards away. Check. Keys in pocket. Check. Body wrapped in black sack tied with rope. Check. I ticked them off my list with a red ballpoint pen.

At the door, the wind sliced me with its frosted knife and I watched with watery eyes as he dragged the body up the basement stairs. The neck snapped as the head hit every step and I wondered why I had to do everything my damn self. 9.29. Rope burned its twisted pattern into my palms and, for the second day in a row, they were red. I shrugged and set foot outside.

My breath was heavy and the rain pricked the sack covered body. Our feet squelched mud and, soon, his face was smudged with the stuff- brown dirt speckled and smeared over his blue jean arse. I wanted to laugh but some part of me crawled out from within and took over. My cheeks fell.

I fished for the car keys and pressed the button. The lights flashed orange and he yanked the boot open, wiping and flicking the rain from his face with fevered hands. I let it run off me, rivulets down my eyes, drops hanging to a point from my nose. I breathed in the lung-harsh air and blew out white.

It took four swings to get it in. We whacked the head on the brake light and it cracked. I cursed him- thoughts of the Police pulling us over. The ice couldn't get any thinner. Boot shut, I climbed in. He sat in the driver's seat, hand hovered over the ignition. I smacked him with the cup of my palm and we jolted to a start.

At the edge of town, the hedges filtered out and the dirt track moulded into solid road. The wipers squeaked blunt blades across the dirty screen. An army of black umbrellas poked their pointed ends to blame an ashen sky. Mail was posted. Dogs were walked. Feet hurried. My cheeks rose and a jolly tune filled my head and forced itself out between my lips.

The car slowed to a pedestrian pace and I turned to him, hand cupped and ready. His eyes flitted between the road and the rear-view mirror. He was a dog's whimper and I turned. The sack rose up from the uncovered boot and rustled as air was sucked in and out from the shrivelled dead lungs inside.

I had not thought of everything.