September 6th, 2003

Book

Uncertain Saturday

A Saturday morning at home; sandwich, coffee, paper. I've had three nights of intense apocalyptic dreams and they are making conscious life quite difficult. Yesterday the remaining population of the world were shuffled onto a spaceship in preparation for an exodus from the planet. The whole thing was badly planned and there was a scene in which people were rummaging through a cornershop's collection of seeds and bulbs so that the new world could be propogated with useful flora - except all these packets just contained colour and nothing of nutritional value. I managed to grab two packets of jasmine, hoping they might have some kind of medicinal use.
The balance between the dreams and waking life has been severely disrupted, try to keep yourself busy, do something with the day before you're sucked back into a world of soul-sucking Nazis and improbable architecture. I feel entirely exhausted. I feel the situation is possibly dangerous.
I was out eating dinner with friends last night and we were sat next to a group of Danes who had come to London for one specific purpose - to see Sigue Sigue Sputnik. Yes, they are still going. A quick search found a Danish SSS site of sorts, this man also likes Heather Hunter, excessive beer drinking, a Danish band called Chillumklud, Westworld and more besides. Well at least I know what happened to Westworld now.
Tomorrow an old friend from school is getting married. I went down to an bookshop in Hoxton to try and find something suitable. The place seemed incredibly overstaffed with three people overdiscussing their art/teaching careers in thick crunchy analytical phrases. There's plenty of nice stuff there, some of it not too heavily priced, but I didn't feel the question 'Do you have anything suitable for a wedding' would get the answer I was after. So I decided to paint something myself and use up all these pre-revolutionary Iranian bank notes I came across in my father's belongings. Won't be ready in time for tomorrow though.
Down the pub and met Dean, drank beer, doffed my hat at Billy Childish as he walked up the street, didn't feel he'd be able to help out with the current predicament of dream nazis taking over my life. Met friends, ate dinner, and there was no reason why the day should not have been some kind of relatively perfect London 2003 event. That was a good evening. Except it wasn't, I kept thinking I was in a Ballard short story where the borders were all dissolving and corners didn't behave themsleves. Once upon a time, I could have put this down to drugs, but I don't have that excuse anymore.
Now the world doesn't fit together convincingly because it really doesn't.
I spend a lot of time wondering just how long I can put off entering a monastery.
There were a large number of Greek priests in the dream last night and they all lived underwater.
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