Travelling sort of through India and South East Asia but also somehow South Africa very briefly, on a bus and crappy planes; everything is coffee-brown dusty and sweaty and dated and worn out looking. We travel for too long to appreciate anything when we get there and have realised the ridiculous nature of our schedule. At an old border control-style facility with ceiling fans, the actress Anne Hathaway, flanked by an army of paparazzi on one side of the customs desk, argues with a couple of Thai monks about her possession of birth control pills. They don't agree with this immoral western expediency. They are grumpy and taciturn and unmoving and she is dressed in brand new black and is full of disbelieving annoyance.
We go to India and see an evil mountain carved in the form of a sage or bodhisattva in an attempt to contain and mollify its resident influence. We are taken to a shrine called a needle waterfall, which is a narrow shaft of sparkling geode-like white quartz, running vertically through the face of a dark brown cliff that foots another mountain. A special caste worships there; elephants have been carved into the low stone barrier around where the vein of quartz disappears into the ground, as though to contain its power. It is an ambiguous and unsettling place, full of strange energy that I can't decipher.
Then we come to a place we'll be staying at, this time deep in a western city with tall decrepit red brick buildings in a tightly-packed commercial/industrial area, down at heel and very old New York. In the ground floor of our particular building is a shitty cafe run by an old woman. We try to sit outside on a variety of shitty tables and chairs but the space is too narrow and it's too dirty and noisy with traffic etc.
We go upstairs to a dusty old hotel room and discover that we need to attend some sort of ball or gala. In the musty drawers we find an amazing selection of weird ball gowns with super heroine themes, constructed of rich vintage fabrics; they are folded in cushiony layers. One has a Wonder Woman theme with prints of her on the vast skirt and a moulded plastic bodice that, no matter how hard I try to hold, it seems too long. I think about how I can possibly steal some of these amazing dresses and go down the stairs for some reason. On coming back up, I notice that someone has drunkenly scrawled instructions to a lover in blue chalky pencil on the stairs, directing him to her room and telling him to be quiet on his way up and not disturb anyone.
REMARKS Well, shit. This dream is about a month old now and I forget precisely what was going through my head at the time, but it looked and felt quite atypical. Anne fucking Hathaway what? The foreboding mountain is from a story by Jim Corbett about the demon of Tresul which we had recently reread, and that imagery has always scared me. The great shaft of white crystal running up the cliff and into the ground was such a strange vision, titanic and impervious and imbued with a mighty, if indecipherable, energy. Like a great glistening spinal column, though utterly inorganic. It impressed me as something central around which my perception revolves, some indestructible influence or axis in my life. It was very humbling. Wish I knew exactly what it was. image: wiki
We go to India and see an evil mountain carved in the form of a sage or bodhisattva in an attempt to contain and mollify its resident influence. We are taken to a shrine called a needle waterfall, which is a narrow shaft of sparkling geode-like white quartz, running vertically through the face of a dark brown cliff that foots another mountain. A special caste worships there; elephants have been carved into the low stone barrier around where the vein of quartz disappears into the ground, as though to contain its power. It is an ambiguous and unsettling place, full of strange energy that I can't decipher.
Then we come to a place we'll be staying at, this time deep in a western city with tall decrepit red brick buildings in a tightly-packed commercial/industrial area, down at heel and very old New York. In the ground floor of our particular building is a shitty cafe run by an old woman. We try to sit outside on a variety of shitty tables and chairs but the space is too narrow and it's too dirty and noisy with traffic etc.
We go upstairs to a dusty old hotel room and discover that we need to attend some sort of ball or gala. In the musty drawers we find an amazing selection of weird ball gowns with super heroine themes, constructed of rich vintage fabrics; they are folded in cushiony layers. One has a Wonder Woman theme with prints of her on the vast skirt and a moulded plastic bodice that, no matter how hard I try to hold, it seems too long. I think about how I can possibly steal some of these amazing dresses and go down the stairs for some reason. On coming back up, I notice that someone has drunkenly scrawled instructions to a lover in blue chalky pencil on the stairs, directing him to her room and telling him to be quiet on his way up and not disturb anyone.
REMARKS Well, shit. This dream is about a month old now and I forget precisely what was going through my head at the time, but it looked and felt quite atypical. Anne fucking Hathaway what? The foreboding mountain is from a story by Jim Corbett about the demon of Tresul which we had recently reread, and that imagery has always scared me. The great shaft of white crystal running up the cliff and into the ground was such a strange vision, titanic and impervious and imbued with a mighty, if indecipherable, energy. Like a great glistening spinal column, though utterly inorganic. It impressed me as something central around which my perception revolves, some indestructible influence or axis in my life. It was very humbling. Wish I knew exactly what it was. image: wiki
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