I am bathing naked in a narrow, shallow trickling stream bordered by a thin skirt of jungly growth; it is waist-deep at most, and there is a narrow bridge at the short distance with the odd person crossing, but I don't care and they don't seem to see me. Then I am in some sort of pale tiled shower room in a resort nearby; it has a single inadequate hinged door panel for privacy, and at first I am slightly concerned, then I realise I don't care about that either. Someone who looks like the actor Tom Hardy is there with me, also naked, and we use the same small white bar of soap. We smile at each other. Our bodies share a pale, robust quality and we are about the same height. My partner arrives; I put on the strange dress he has bought me- black and white and sort of blotchy like ikat and tied on around by neck with a weird, webbed string arrangement. We walk along the street for a while and I can feel my wet hair dripping down my back.
Then I'm at some sort of nightclub waiting for music, because I want to dance. I'm sitting beside two performers who are dressed in black lycra and dark silver duct tape and I realise there's going to be some kind of show, so I take a seat. It's vaguely acrobatic, but quite low key until a troupe of silky white horses come on in unison; they are plumed and graceful but their sole purpose seems to be to withstand the great blast of noisy music that is directed at them, because they remain calm and exit soon after. Now I am sitting much further back from the stage and the person sitting next to me is an annoying 70's lothario type with an open shirt, shaggy bleached hair and large formal shoes; he is leaning over and invading my space, resting one of his shoes on my shin. I tell him to fuck off and push him back, then announce that I'm going to inform security; he is angry and follows me into what becomes a wooded paddock at night.
My accusations become more shrill and lurid as I try to deter him from following me; I encounter a young girl in a lavender night dress who is being followed by someone sinister and together we make for the doorway that will bring us back to the nightclub. The room inside is like the interior of a cramped backstage greenroom divided into two parts. Someone says that everyone with a complaint or a story should go to the larger area and we shuffle in together. The man who wouldn't leave me alone is walking back and forth outside and his shoes are making leaf litter and dirt come in under the decrepit wall and onto the wooden floor beside me.
REMARKS: The first half of this dream felt quite peaceful and adventurous; I was slightly aware that I was dreaming while it unfolded. As I've gotten older I've found I have far less fucks to give about nudity and my body and losing a bit of weight has reminded me what it was like to be hotter, lol. I own an ikat dress and fancy a few more. Tom Hardy- yes I would, but it would have to be with my eyes closed (that fucking ghetto ink just kicks me in the ladyballs) and I probably wouldn't tell anyone.
I used to be an inveterate clubkid who really enjoyed the shamanic/transcendent aspects of trance night. Back then it was just about losing your little mind in a dervish-like manner but these days clubs just seem to be a big narcissistic shit show full of hard-posing rich kids and that killed my love for it stone dead. Maybe I should take more drugs?
Horses represent my personal and artistic agency blah blah and yes, they're not doing much right now.
Creepy guys often have Lynchian significance in my dreams for reasons I won't bore you with; I am battling a sort of mild if extremely tenacious bout of depression at the moment that I fear is seeping into deeper layers, hence the debris trickling in under the wall despite the assumption of sanctuary. Fuck.
Then I'm at some sort of nightclub waiting for music, because I want to dance. I'm sitting beside two performers who are dressed in black lycra and dark silver duct tape and I realise there's going to be some kind of show, so I take a seat. It's vaguely acrobatic, but quite low key until a troupe of silky white horses come on in unison; they are plumed and graceful but their sole purpose seems to be to withstand the great blast of noisy music that is directed at them, because they remain calm and exit soon after. Now I am sitting much further back from the stage and the person sitting next to me is an annoying 70's lothario type with an open shirt, shaggy bleached hair and large formal shoes; he is leaning over and invading my space, resting one of his shoes on my shin. I tell him to fuck off and push him back, then announce that I'm going to inform security; he is angry and follows me into what becomes a wooded paddock at night.
My accusations become more shrill and lurid as I try to deter him from following me; I encounter a young girl in a lavender night dress who is being followed by someone sinister and together we make for the doorway that will bring us back to the nightclub. The room inside is like the interior of a cramped backstage greenroom divided into two parts. Someone says that everyone with a complaint or a story should go to the larger area and we shuffle in together. The man who wouldn't leave me alone is walking back and forth outside and his shoes are making leaf litter and dirt come in under the decrepit wall and onto the wooden floor beside me.
REMARKS: The first half of this dream felt quite peaceful and adventurous; I was slightly aware that I was dreaming while it unfolded. As I've gotten older I've found I have far less fucks to give about nudity and my body and losing a bit of weight has reminded me what it was like to be hotter, lol. I own an ikat dress and fancy a few more. Tom Hardy- yes I would, but it would have to be with my eyes closed (that fucking ghetto ink just kicks me in the ladyballs) and I probably wouldn't tell anyone.
I used to be an inveterate clubkid who really enjoyed the shamanic/transcendent aspects of trance night. Back then it was just about losing your little mind in a dervish-like manner but these days clubs just seem to be a big narcissistic shit show full of hard-posing rich kids and that killed my love for it stone dead. Maybe I should take more drugs?
Horses represent my personal and artistic agency blah blah and yes, they're not doing much right now.
Creepy guys often have Lynchian significance in my dreams for reasons I won't bore you with; I am battling a sort of mild if extremely tenacious bout of depression at the moment that I fear is seeping into deeper layers, hence the debris trickling in under the wall despite the assumption of sanctuary. Fuck.
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