Social isolation dreams #2 and #3

Coronavirus stalks not only our days, but our nights too. Freud didn’t know the half of it.

#2  Because of the pandemic we’ve taken in a lodger. He’s called Benito Mussolini and though it clearly is him, in some sense, essentially he is a large pile of some dark olive green material, like an early type of polyurethane, with a smooth, globular surface, and looks rather like something sculpted by Rodin. He needs to go the loo, the one near our front door - though, strangely, on the opposite side of the house from where it usually is. Soon we begin to hear the sounds of Italian opera, which get louder and louder, hysterical and strangulated.

We look at each other. “He seems to be in pain. We’d better go and see if he’s all right”. We go in, and find that Mussolini has farted away the central part of his backside, which is dripping blood and poo, with wires and things sticking out. He appears to be distressed. We want to help but we can’t touch him because of the coronavirus. We bring him a few things and the next time we go in he has removed his buttocks, cleanly, much like a large bite out of an apple and the same colour too, leaving just a small central eye-shaped bright red hole.

#3 A series of instructional dreams the theme of which appears to be a requirement to get dissimilar items to fit together nicely into something aesthetically whole.

(1) pink pottery plantpots and cardboard boxes. Mm, this one’s difficult. Apart from the fact that the former can go into the latter, there’s no commonality.

(2) different building styles, including gothic and art deco. They fit together nicely into somewhere that might be Madrid or Manhattan.

(3) different musical instruments. The drummer says that his is the principal contribution to the band, but with patience he is persuaded to play with the others, and the end result is a balanced and credible song. “I used to be very successful” he says. He looks about 14 and resembles someone who was on “University Challenge” recently.

Social isolation dream #1

It’s the last day at college, and I wander round looking for my colleagues to go for an end of term drink with them. Strangely, they’ve all disappeared, but there’s a guy there who I’ve seen around before, passing through. He lives in the next block. I think he’s called Richard; he’s tall and friendly, with freckles and ginger hair. We head into town together. It gets busier and busier, and the street bifurcates. It’s so narrow and busy that we can’t walk side by side, and Richard leads the way. The thoroughfare divides again and the crowd grows denser. I try to follow Richard, but eventually I lose sight of him. He must be somewhere up ahead. On the right is a bar with some empty tables inside, cream painted wooden tables and chairs. I’m sure this is the place we were supposed to go. No sign of Richard but I’m sure he’ll find me.

I sit down and wait. A barman comes along to take my order and I explain that I’m waiting for my friend. I wait for a few minutes and then go outside to look for him. No sign. Back to my table and there are four students wanting to sit down. The whole place has become impossibly crowded, with people wedged into every available space. I reclaim my seat. The guy nearest to me seems annoyed with me, and has a foreign accent, vaguely central European. I gesture to him that there’s enough space for me as well as for him and his friends.  He appears placated, loses his accent, and starts to look a lot like Hugh Grant.

A smiling middle aged barmaid in a pretty country-music dress arrives to take the orders. I explain I’m not with the others, who all want Diet Cokes; someone says something about Durham University, and that they come here because the drinks are so cheap. I’ve been studying the menu, which consists mostly of very potent Belgian beers. I’m unsure about strengths and sizes. I ask for a large one of the principal brand on offer, shown as an illegible green logo at the top of the page. It’s the most expensive item available, and the barmaid gives me a congratulatory knowing look along the lines of “good for you; you do realise it will blow your head off, don’t you”. Well, I hope it will. I’m suddenly very thirsty.

I turn to my companion. “So you’re all from Durham University, are you? I used to have a friend there”.

Immediately it occurs to me that I’m 50 years older than him, and he’s never heard of my friend, notorious though he was, involved later in life in a very public scandal.

“He lived in a kind of castle”, I say. I visualise huge black walls. “Student accommodation”.

“Ah, yes, I know. Was he in charge of the fire regulations ?”

At this point Richard reappears, very concerned and apologetic that he had lost me, blaming himself. He’s somehow pushed past me and is squashed into a triangular corner where the walls are covered with images of theatre bills. He offers to buy me a drink by way of apology. “I’ve already ordered”, I tell him. 

I turn to my new  acquaintance. “Can I introduce you to Richard?”, I say, realising that I don’t know the Durham guy’s name. “Richard” doesn’t say anything but gives me a look which I’m very certain means “my name isn’t Richard”. Which I’ve kind of suspected.

Then I wake up. I’m still thirsty.