the m john harrison blog

Tag: dreams

still as pretty as ever

Today I woke the Marin from its deep protective dream in the corner of the shed. Advanced psychic engineering & a thick layer of cobwebs appear to have kept it functioning.

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Now if only I can remember what it’s for.

this Greek dog

This Greek dog fished all day in the sea.

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He never caught anything but his attention never wavered.

end of a dream

We ran through the rooms, looking for a way back to the staircase. I found a way–an empty corridor in a different kind of place, quite old but much more upscale–then I was out in a street on my own. I was still agitated and excited and I wondered what would happen next time we met. Then I found an old chair in the street. It was quite small and still looked good, but when I picked it up I saw that parts of it were missing, and when I put it down (on a bench near a phone box) it fell to pieces.

is there anything you want to tell me

I dreamed I had been commissioned to review a cafe. I ate a good meal & went to bed with the waitress. I downclimbed the outside of the building a couple of times, the way you do. (It was easier the first time.) Then I got down to business. I was particularly interested in compliance with local health & safety regulations, also getting the history right. I wanted to do a serious job with this. I sat the waitress down & took out my notebook.

google maps, 2am

A half-built estate. I remember kneeling over frozen puddles from which all the water seemed to have evaporated, leaving only ice on top of air. Later in the year a stile; a narrow pathway between hedges. I used to have a dream about walking on the flat green water of a canal. I remember looking down from a bridge. The water on the left, narrow lawns with trees on the right. Sunshine and shade. Ecstatic happiness. In the dream the water’s right at the level of the path, they form a single continuous surface. By the time I was twenty I’d forgotten all this except as flashes, glimpses, nothing that could even be labeled as a memory. I’ve been looking for the childhood source of the images for almost fifty years. I also have an image of playing with wooden building blocks, faded grainy blue, orange and brown. And from the same period, I think, nightmares featuring a train with a coloured dragon coming out of its chimney instead of smoke. With some of these dreams I associate the distant sound of shunting engines and the leaden buzzing noise–apprehended as both a taste and and a smell–I used as an index of the uncanny in some stories. But those images may be from later, when we had moved somewhere else.

the Master from Venus

In the early 1970s I was introduced to two or three sweet old ladies, probably younger than I am now, who lived in a vast, light-filled flat near the seafront in Southport. They were members of a cult that believed in a “master” who would soon come down from the planet Venus to save us from ourselves. They were excited by The Pastel City, which they assumed was a kind of oblique spiritual nonfiction, assembled by some inner self of mine. When I said I didn’t believe in flying saucers, they said, in unison, “Oh but you do. You just don’t know yet.” This demonstrated a generosity of spirit I was unable to extend to them, and which I’ve never forgotten.

a busy life

It’s advert time. She’s being pulled along by a big friendly dog. She’s seeing friends, they’re stealing her snacks! She’s trying on clothes and advertising a breakfast cereal. The camera’s going with her everywhere. Now she’s shaving dead skin off her heels where her weight forces them daily into the backs of her shoes, with a thing that looks like an electric razor. Quick as you like, the camera cuts to garlic being squeezed through a garlic press. She’s looking at houses, she’s getting lunch, she’s eating a sandwich her way. She’s getting Gaviscon for her lifestyle-induced acid reflux. Her constant constipation is like a bag full of uneaten food, her house smells but she can fix that with a smile. Soon she’s flirting with the dentist, flirting while she takes something for a cough, flirting as the camera follows her into the toilet. She knows so much more than her mother!

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chommie

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in case she hurts herself

It’s so nice to hear from you. It feels as if we haven’t talked for ages. You write, “All along the Thames, boats are on their way to being islands, islands on their way to being boats.” Then something you overheard on the bank near Kew, a woman calling to her little girl: “’Don’t run!’ Then: ‘Daphne! No more running! You’re going to hurt yourself.'” And you add, “There’ll be no more running in Daphne’s life, in case she hurts herself. She’s three.” When I re-read that paragraph of your mail, I experience a weird deja vu, as if you told me this–or at least something similar to this–described some encounter of the same sort–a long time ago. Of course, you couldn’t have, but it’s strange, and the whole content of the scene is strange too, I don’t know why. It would easily fit into the kind of story I am writing now.

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