The Enemy

A little brush with the most terrifying dream in the world.

I woke up in shivers, my head under the blanket -and didn't dare open my eyes or move. I knew 'it' or he, whatever it is, was in the room. I knew what was happening: about to unfold, the final encounter between me, another iteration of me who also was in the room but who I couldn't see or sense, just knew he -or me, was there, and the Enemy, so inconceivably bigger and also smaller, so difficult to imagine even, without a face although 'he' could choose to appear with any face he wanted. Perhaps a Demon, or the very master of the demons, whatever they truly were… 'demon' is only a word, has a lot of connotations of theism and religion. What I was dealing with was similar but different -if it was indeed different, as I couldn't get to know what it truly was; a being that was the sum total of terror and evil, larger and smaller than anything in the world and the world itself. In my dreams I've recurrently brushed with the story many many times. I can never remember the whole story once awake, it is a little bit as if something inside my mind was trying to protect me from remembering too much about it. I know I have, purposefully or unintendedly, challenged this being, who sometimes I battle with and defeat momentarily, sometimes at the cost of the destruction of my old house in Catia or my whole home city, but it is a temporary respite; we escape or hide but we know it is going to happen again and in the end of time we will lose. That is what I know about the story, of which I get glimpses, different iterations with different developments, each time I dream. More often we're on the run trying to escape from it, or hiding in what remains of my old house, or there is a temporary respite when I have found a way to conceal my hiding place or my presence from the Evil Being. This, alas, can be done only for a little while.

The Enemy has just half-woken me up, a brush of cold void to make me wake up in terror, just for fun perhaps or maybe with some purpose that is beyond what I can comprehend. It is not 'me', this iteration of me that he is about to fight and, given the overwhelming odds, probably defeat and destroy today. But all the same I know it is me in a deeper sense who is out there and unaware of me under the blankets not daring to open my eyes. Tension and terror rise and I finally wake up in cold sweat, my cat pounding the mattress next to my face and making little noises indicating she's completely spooked. I daren't open my eyes: I know I'm still dreaming and there may be many more layers of dream to get through before I truly wake up -my poor little kitty has been dead for many years.

in red

You float downstream into the red channels, something sloshes near. You know you're not really there but it is more real than reality. In some sense you really are there, but you need to get out. At some point, along the maze of canals and tunnels criss-crossing in front of you, you saw a point of white light in the distance, surely daylight and the real world -you headed for that point of light but quickly lost your way again in the labyrinth of tunnels, the red pulsating light in them making the views dim and indistinct. There are distant noises, apart from the liquid noises and the pulse that envelopes you; there are whooshing and scraping noises that you can just about make out in the distance. Ah, there's the point of white light. There, it's lost again…

And at some point I'll have to wake up, without having found my way, which means I'll find myself in this maze again, or a similar one, when I next fall asleep and dream. It assumes many forms… there is the maze on Floor 10, where I have to find my uncle's apartment but the lifts and stairs don't take you there, you have to find your way through a series of lifts that take you part of the way, then find the horizontal lift, whatever that means, then the stairs that take you there, to that apartment in shade, full of long-leaved plants in pots, ancient portraits on the wall which I can never quite make out in the semi-darkness, the series of bathrooms, one of which is assigned to me but I can never find so I have to use the other ones but they're almost all of them broken, the radio that will bring me news from outside, an ancient radio from the '30s with names of cities on the dial, 'London', 'Paris', 'Moscow…' but it is mostly static and suddenly a crackled, broken voice in a foreign language I cannot make out…

And then I'm again in the red tunnels, on a craft of some sort, being taken down the canals at speed, trying to steer towards where I think there is that white point of light...

drifting through the halls of mirrors 1

I was in a hall and there was a concert in progress. It was supposed to be Neubauten, playing a acoustic set un-amplified. People had been waiting for this concert for ages but now that it was happening they were bored. The band was almost drowned by the voices of people in the audience. Nobody was heckling as such but people were calling out as they left the hall, calling at each other "going to the pub, you coming along?”, “Get me a pint” and similar.

So the band stopped and people hardly noticed as there was almost no-one left in the hall and those remaining were talking so loudly. I went over to the stage area and was surprised to see that they had packed up already, in only a couple of minutes. Ok, so perhaps it wasn't Neubauten; on the stage there was a young very tall man in a suit. Expensive suit, I thought. Expensive but a little bit tacky. . I congratulated them and expressed surprise at the fact that they could pack their stuff away so quickly.

One turn and I am at the gym, on top of that contraption they call a 'cross-trainer'. I hate those places and for a moment I'm not quite really there. And my eyes are closed. What difference is there, I'm walking down the empty corridors in the last Battlestar ship as it hurtles downm towards the sun, or in a desert beginning the ascent as the unseen hecklers throw stones at me and call me by the name Mercer, which is not my name but it doesn't matter. Nothing does now...

morning

Getting up and leaving the house early is still so difficult for me. Maybe

At least it is day-light when I leave the  house even if it is that preternatural misty white light of doom that makes you feel like you're in a mystery movie, or exploring some alien hostile world. Ok, perhaps I exaggerate slightly. Although you do see hostile looking beings with their pasty white faces, scuttling past clutching their umbrellas..

Spring is coming ok, but winter still not giving in.

taking over

I think it was my childhood friend E, although at times he looked like B., my German high school mate, who I had met and invited to my house. I was waking up that . They were cleaning the house, one room at a time, but with every room they cleaned there appeared two or three sisters or brothers of my friend's who would take over the room. Nobody could tell me where my granddad or my mum were and I was concerned as they had been poorly. There were girls and boys of all ages coming in and out of those rooms and milling all around the house now. I caught a glimpse of a boy sitting on a bed in one of the rooms, clumsily trying to play one of my guitars.

I went to my room and my book case and bed-side table (and their contents) weren't there; instead there were some buckets and mops. So I went to my friend and loudly complained and he started to speak before I'd finished, me in loud voices, he in soft tones. Where were my books and the contents of my bed-side table? My laptop was there and all my books and music, where were they. 'Calma', he replied; nothing's lost, we're just cleaning them and pruning the things you don't need. What? shouted I, 'you're not to decide what I need or don't need! I want my stuff back now!'. He looked to me with a smile, the sort of smile that you would direct towards somebody who is ill and perhaps a little mad and doesn't quite make sense. Then I saw the two twelve year old girls carrying bundles of my books out to the yard. I told myself I had to be dreaming, this just could not be happening. And he said, as if he'd been able to hear me 'of course it is not happening to you there where you are, but there are many of you in the universe and this is happening for real to some of you and the pain will resonate in you, I hope…'

That's when I woke up, covered in sweat and breathing noisily, the silence in my room like an overstretched bow string..

There was a celebration. It was a sort of very small pub/restaurant. It was the 200th anniversary of the place and they would be giving away food that was supposed to be fantastic. I'd driven a long way to get there… there was a crowd and people were clutching their passports. Many had pints of beer which one was supposed to be able to order from the bar. I went over to the bar and the girl behind the counter gave me some mumbling explanation about why she couldn't give me a beer and that her colleague would -at which point she left, but there was no-one else behind the counter.

I thought that it was a little pointless to stay at the bar, clutching my passport like the rest, when it could be hours before the food was served or given out. So I went in the other room and sat down. I was very thirsty and there was no-one at the bar. I think I was beginning to say this to the girl sitting next to me but she was pointedly looking away so I stopped talking and reclined on the kind of sofa. This guy from the Dev in London walked past and said hello. Well, I think he was from the Dev. Anyway, I said hello back. It was getting very warm and I took the outer one of the two t-shirts I was wearing but then I realised that the inner one had some ridiculous design and drawings on and I was a little embarrassed so swapped the two -and thought I better leave the other one and my bag in the boot of the car. Came out and pressed the car remote but -it was the wrong car. It was over there, past the street with trees and to the left, perhaps a mile or so. So there I headed..

.. couldn't find it. Ended up taking a mini-bus but this was going the wrong way, up the hill into a barrio and I was getting more and more nervous as I had no idea where I was. At some point I saw a tube station sign, the blue and red London Underground roundel, so I asked the driver to stop and paid -with a ten bolivar note, the driver gave me another ten bolivar note back, albeit a more crumpled one. I walked towards the station and saw that… it was only a tube sign but there was no station. How could there be, this was not London. So I stood there looking down to the valley and the mountains in the distance wondering how I would get out of that place..

Downstairs again and again

We went downstairs when we heard the noise of the train arriving. It was my old house in Catia, this was just not possible. There was a train line running through it and a platform In the corridor. We knew what was to happen next, all of this had happened before. The Nazis and their demon masters would get off the train and round up the people in the lower floor of the house and take them away. We would not be caught, or at least we never had been caught in al, the innumerable times this had happened before, but you never knew whether a small kink in the fabric of reality, if reality this was indeed, would change this. What could be worse, to be forever trapped in this absurd cycle or to break it to find ourselves in the hands of our enemies?

There were shouts downstairs, doors being kicked in. I went upstairs trying to keep a low profile, whispered to B to keep her head down and not make any noise. She didn't seem to be aware or remember the many times we'd been through this, or perhaps it was all just weariness...

Closer boot steps. Maybe this time they would come upstairs. Where to to, there was the roof but that offered no protection. There would surely soon be helicopters above us. I looked at her, she was looking at me biting her lip, anxious. An alarm siren broke out somewhere....

morning fog

flavio se levantó finalmente, eventualmente, despues que la alarma habia sonado cinco veces y cinco veces habia apretado el botón de snooze -que ahora es solo un botón virtual en la pantalla del teléfono móvil asi que uno tantea sin abrir los ojos pero tambien sin encontrar el botón por un buen rato hasta darse por vencido y abrir los ojos para poder ganarse esa tregua de ocho minutos durante la cual sueña y todo, con la interfaz del iphone que se convierte en enormes cubos de algo asi como espuma de anime o styrofoam con la que uno tiene que luchar y abrirse paso a través de ella para lograr que el mundo se ajuste un poquitico a lo que uno, pero apenas aquello se resuelve suena la alarma otra vez y tantea uno esperando encontrar el fulano botón virtual pintado en la pantalla del fulano teléfono pero uno sabe que solo le está haciendo cosquillas virtuales en la nariz a una Mora virtual de dieciocho años,el fantasma de su amor lejano que abre los ojos cada vez que la pantalla se enciende. Y no consigue apagar la alarma. Ok, es un juguete demasiado caro para estrellarlo contra la pared, asi que no hay vuelta: hay que abrir los ojos -ah, el botón está justo encima de la nariz. Otros ocho minutos de tregua durante la cual uno flota corriente abajo y se encuentra caminando por una playa rocosa y gris, con olas estrellándose contra las piedras en apoteosis de espuma, y de pronto se encuentra uno un juego de ajedrez en la playa. Huy, esto no me gusta, quizá es hora de levantarme....

in the car

I was driving through from Plaza Catia towards La Cortada, there was to be this party at my sister's friend's -after all these years. People looked at me as I drove by. Couldn't remember the address. This place has changed a lot since I last was here, all those years ago. I no longer know my way around.

Now I'm walking towards the house and I realise I've left my expensive mobile phone on the dashboard of the car. Bad move -anywhere, but especially in an area like this. I must find the car. I left it back there that way.. I think. I have to walk through a group of young men who look at me with suspicion and derision. I mumble 'con permiso...' as I make my way through them. One gives way and I get through. Phew. I don't recognise these streets, this is not where I should be..

Ah, there's my sister waving at me and beckoning. That is the house, then; not at all where I remembered it. She goes in and I go after her. There's no party yet. Going to shower and change for the party.. then I remember I've left that expensive fancy phone in the car. I look out the door just in case the car was in sight -find myself locked out. I'm in my underwear. What to do. I decide to look for the car. Now people do look at me. The car was along this row.. oh, ok, maybe it wasn't. Only then I realise the precariousness of my situation. I no longer know how to get back to the house or back home, don't know where my car is, am standing in the middle of the street with only my underwear on, with no ID documents or means to prove who I am.

Mercifully, then I hear the pips of the BBC Radio announcing it is 6:00 am....

departures

I was due to take the boat. I told her I had to go; I would be late otherwise and stuck here, I needed to be back.

I dreaded having to go through the customs bit, I always got stopped and sometimes would miss the boat because of this. I looked for my watch but I didn't have any. It was nice where I was, though, at the top of the hill. It had changed. On the way down on the old dry brook bank, there were now stairways, water features, escalators going down in different directions and the walk down the hill towards the port became a sort of shopping centre with artisan's workshops and many nooks and crannies. You had to go through many of these on your way down. It felt like it could be very easy to get lost but somehow I managed to make it down to the port. I queued for ages, looking at the dark green water in the lock where the boat was held, its open upper deck, the people milling around and getting on board. People were still coming out from the underground connection tunnel, which also led to the dilapidated alleys at the back of the bottom of the shopping centre down the mountain. Nice trees in them, lots of litter around and the feeling that something (or, rather, something) lurked behind the corners. Go back to the port, which is not really such but just a dock with the one ship in it, enclosed for now in a dock, frothing brown waters rocking it, people in uniform walking on the deck with clipboards, noises of machinery coming from unseen places. Where is my passport, where are my keys… I steel myself and walk towards the starkly lit complex of perspex cabins...

dials

As soon as you wake up. You were thinking -it must have been the intervention of so and so, it is so clear. But one second after you don't remember what the intervention was about or on which or which was the agent of that intervention that was so necessary. You drift back into sleep and look for the answer, which you can find if you find the right tuning in the sleek black machine like a bedside clock or a cd player, with a blue led display, the numbers in which have clearly a significance but you do not know how to read, but twiddle the dials, see the numbers change and hope they will come up with the right answer.

In the meantime, there is also the drip-drip from the hole in the ceiling. Or indeed the roof; there is no ceiling in this room. This is supposed to be my room, I'm coming back to it after many years and it is at the same time familiar and strange. My things are all here but I don't recognise them. Is this thing with blue led dials supposed to be my computer? Where is my guitar? But I know my guitar is back in London, can it exist in two places at the same time? I know it is supposed to be here somewhere.

The rain outside, washing down leaves that end up blocking the drain. Splashes of brown and green and wet. Splash, splash, green, wet.

more on vanishing dreams

I wake up, reach the alarm clock and put the noise out. This time I'm happy, the dream was positive. It wasn't a twisted reflection of my distant past, my dysfunctional family or my crumbling house in Catia, the raving lunatic asylum that was my secondary school or any of the other ghosts from the past that often come out to play their distorted games in the still of the night. It was a dream about future and hope and confidence. And I still..

No, I don't. In the time it took me to think or, rather, to feel that, the dream has vanished like mist in a sunny morning. I can no longer remember anything about it except that positive feeling. So I sigh, stretch, struggle a bit to get up and get on with my waking life, hoping maybe tomorrow I may get a glimpse of what it was about.

Kaleidoscopes

I think it was Daniella's house and I was waiting in the upper reception bit for her to turn up for her lesson, but she was, I was told, otherwise engaged somewhere else in the house. The light was not very good and things had a sort of veiled and mysterious hue to them. I wondered whether they would be in the lower reception -you could see a bit of it through down the steps. The candelabra (which I had never noticed before) were all lit and there was something grand but slightly odd about the room, as if the devil were going to hold his great dinner feast there that night and this were the moment just before the guests started to arrive. There were no guests as yet, though. I was aware, somehow, that I was seeing a scene from the past and maybe not even from a 'real' past, not one that was real for me. How did I get here? Had I driven? Had I taken the por-puesto that left you at the corner of 3a Transversal? I couldn't remember. There were hushed voices coming from somewhere upstairs. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. There must be some kind of way out of here..

You wake up thinking of death, have to get up to have a drink of water and a wee, stagger to the bathroom in the semi-darkness thinking of the fragility and transience of human life. Then remember the house, the upper reception room, the feeling that there was a party of some sort just about to begin and that you didn't want to be part of it, whatever it was. You stagger back to bed, various led lights blinking in the room. Maybe four hours' sleep, if I manage to fall asleep soon. What is that? A market stall. Hey, it's good to see you. She hasn't seen me, though, or does not recognise me..

So many dreams go forgotten, most of them as soon as we wake up. What are they? I suppose there are many answers and many possible readings to this, just as is the case with almost any human activity. Dreams are part of the web of our lives. You can say they are not real, they are only what our brains, largely below the surface of consciousness, make of what we experience of the world and of ourselves, rather than the reality of that world -but then every thing we experience of the world does go through that sieve of perception and of what we are made of, with all the biases resulting from that and which we cannot escape.

dream of the end being nigh...

The sun beams through the window. I get blinded in the glare while my pupil plays his Brazilian piece

The dream was very long and, as is often the case, the beginning was lost in the haze between coming back to bed in the darkness after the increasingly more frequent semi-sonambulic nocturnal excursions to the loo. I didn't know I had to get up in three hours' time.

By the end of it I was with these group of friends whose face has now been erased by the morning soap and coffee. We were waiting for the bombs to drop. We were gathered in what could have been a large school or community sports centre, lots of very large glass windows, functional pine furniture, a stack of wooden frames at one end of the large hall. The person in charge, a young man neatly dressed, if quite out of fashion, in a suit and tie, kept saying that the end was imminent but we weren't to switch on the TV sets or the radio. This was forbidden as it would be a transgression of some sort and would impair our judgment by the higher powers, or something like that. Also there was something about the news being made to hide what was happening so as not to alarm people although our fate was decided. That made me suspicious. Why would he not want us to hear news about what was going on. A girl had a mobile phone and was talking (surreptitiously, I don't think she was supposed to be able to do that) to someone outside. "You're still there -the bombs haven't dropped yet, then". She's covering her mouth and the phone with her hand and talking in a soft but anxious voice. I look out the window: nothing stirs in the landscape. No sign of the flying bombs. He is on the podium again, telling people to be brave. Death will not defeat us, the ever after awaits us. The enemies shall not prevail. What am I doing here, I think to myself. Who is this guy, did I at some point believe all that claptrap? There must be some kind of way out. Maybe the bombs are really on their way but I am not better off here than anywhere else.