the dreaming glitching thing

july’s dream

Morning Monday July 6

Woke up with Benny Troy’s ‘I Want To Give You Tomorrow’ running around my head. I had been trying to put an advert together in New York City using bits of faded old advert that by themselves were fake looking; but, cut up and juxtaposed with the Troy song then looked real and powerful enough. What this was a commercial for I cannot now tell. But it was NYC and so I guess shades of Mad Men were permeating. I was creating this advert in the theatre of an old mannequin factory and it was very late at night. There was a green sleeping bag on the floor and I could have slept there on the floor but somehow it seemed imperative to get back to the hotel with the others, who the others were, is not apparent. I did however make it back to the hotel which may have been called the Alquincon, definitely had shades of the Chelsea. They were making and selling delicious looking / smelling sandwiches at a kiosk in the glass fronted foyer but the man there got angry and would not let me pay him because I did not have I.D. I showed him my passport but it wasn’t enough, I had a sure sense of panic and non-accreditation, he called over to the bar and the barman beckoned me in to resolve the matter, they weren’t sure if they had a room or booking for me and I suddenly regretted leaving the green sleeping bag on the floor of the old mannequin theatre. It was now 5.a.m. and nuclear war sirens could be heard in the distance. Tony Knaggs then appeared at the bar, as he does, and said, ‘aye, aye John, what you having then?’ ‘Oh, I’ll have a Bloody Mary” “Champion, we’ll have a couple of beers with them too, I like it here’. The bar was full and Tony was on first name terms with the bar staff. He was having no problems with I.D. or being served. I told him my predicament and he said not a problem, he would sort it, and we wouldn’t be paying to stay the night, or what was left of it anyway, either. The Mad Men vibe was still going strong here, lots of the guys in nice suits, the gals in well cut cocktail dresses, court shoes, pearls the like, it was like a Richard Avedon photo gone a bit ‘blurred around the edges, a bit ‘Velvet Underground’. This was compounded by Tracey Sanders Wood walking through the bar with a mannequin’s head, Salome like, peeping out of a plastic shopping bag. It was said to be the last mannequins head in the city as they had been banned by the mayor because they had brought a few years of bad luck to Manhattan the decade before. Hence all the headless torso’s in the shiny glass fronted windows of the department stores. ‘I don’t think this city knows what bad luck is and Tracey has obviously started a new art project, I reckon a couple more Bloody Mary’s’ said Tony who then turned to the bar and ordered. Whilst he was getting this new order in Andy Warhol sidled up and said all the tailors in town were in fact dying because measuring up men for suits was a toxic vocation, ‘could I believe that?’ I could, it was getting very dark. The components of the advert I was making then began revolving around my head and nothing else in the dream then mattered. I knew Benny Troy was key to the whole thing. The sun began to permeate the commercial footage.

june’s dream

I’m up on the 3rd floor of old house, watching woman down below in street on her knees scrubbing the steps of her door in torrential rain so that the act itself is worthless. Pop Smoke’s Dior song is playing on the blue tooth speaker by her side. She looks up and gestures angrily at the poster I have stuck to the window, which is promoting an old-school hip hop venture with political / subversive leanings. I have got the aesthetic wrong apparently, something to do with transparency, and she does not agree with the anti-materialistic message I am trying to convey. We work hard to look good and there is nothing more to life she shouts up.  This triggers doubt on the words I have set myself to compose, the lyrical flow, as part of the project, and I try to write words that relate, apply, to a just arrived at the age of 60 year old, white male of privilege, who can’t help but see things from a slightly skewered angle. A party whirls around me as I write. The weather has broken outside, here comes summer, i have new clothes to wear from Universal Works and Albam and a pair of almost science fiction white shades from Han Kjobenhavn