They have become more intense, and quite cinematic. Every night brings forth a new, intense, layered, somewhat apocalyptic, complex reel from my psyche and the archives of my subconscious.
The other night I dreamt I had driven to the beach in my old silver Peugeot. I climbed a hill to the sea but to get there, I had to pass through a backstage area with props and sets under construction. The ocean and sky were painted, with large descriptive Turneresque waves and clouds, in black and white. I could see a seam, a slit in the backdrop, like the Truman Show, behind which the real ocean began, but I wasn’t allowed past it. The backdrop was being patrolled by guards and menacing men who prevented my movements towards the mural. They told me I needed to go back and find my car and leave. I saw a boy from school and early art school days who was working on the set. He has since turned to alcoholism but in the dream was still young and beautiful. (He used to tease and provoke me, later declaring it was actually love he had felt.) The guards accompanied me, but I couldn’t find my car. There was an old cushion on the floor and they said I must drive on that. I explained it wasn’t possible and that I needed to find my car, although every car was similar but not quite mine. My car contained beautiful drawings and coloured oil pastels,
Everything in the dream was black and white, but the pastels in my car were beautiful colours. It was so reminiscent of the Truman Show and as though I had driven to the end of the constructed reality. I guess it’s not hard to see that after a year of lockdowns, and government overreach, there is still a sense of dissent and desire to fight authority, to find my way out of the semiotics of covid and control, my own wrestling with conspiracy theories and Adam Curtis-type narratives. The paradox of both wanting escape and wanting safety.