meversusmysubconscious

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Eight

One uncle kills another, with the murder taking place on the moors of Northumberland. The weapon used is a trophy. The murder is, in part, over a woman. My uncle confides in my brother that it was he who murdered my uncle. I discover too, using my own detective skills, that it was my uncle. I tell my brother this, and he confirms it. We agree not to tell the police.

A month or two later I am arrested as a suspect in the inquiry into the death of my uncle. I am reluctant to admit the truth to the police but, after many hours of questioning, eventually do so. My family is appalled that I would make such a claim about my uncle. They stop visiting me, even my brother, who is now concerned about being prosecuted for concealing evidence from the police. My uncle has an alibi. The police take my accusation as confirmation of my own guilt. My mother visits me. I tell her I didn’t do it. We have a heated conversation about the nature of love, and how that relates to trust.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Seven

I enter the building via a narrow series of white steps. Inside the ceiling initially seems too low, lending it a somewhat office like feel. I check in at the small booth at the right hand side. The central area of the floor is a number of steps down, under a symmetrical stepped glass pyramid. The perversity of this design is heightened by the large number of potted plants within this recessed area. They form an almost impenetrable barrier, at the centre of which sits a fan. I descend down three steps, so as to take me to one step of this barrier, then walk along this side of the recessed square. At the corner I ascend diagonally, so as to bring me up perhaps halfway along the new plane. I then walk, bowing my head slightly, to the large picture window. This architectural feature only reveals its perversity close up. It is marginally too low to look through comfortably whilst standing up. I bow further. The river is larger than I remember. 

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Six

I am going on exchange to an art academy in Russia. When I first arrive I am hungry. I go to a bar near the airport. I see a food menu lying on the bar and reach for it. Someone else grabs it. I decide to go for the next menu along, reaching over a seated couple currently looking at a menu. The man decides he needs his own menu. I go for the next one, firmly slamming my hand down on it. I sit down. I can’t understand the menu. “Я вегетарианец” I say to the man behind the bar. He laughs. “You need to specify”. He laughs again. “Your accent is terrible”. I laugh. His accent is american. “I’m fresh off the plane” I say, unintentionally aping him. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Is the soup vegetarian?”. I eat the soup.

I am mostly lonely in Russia. I can’t even find my way around the art academy, regularly getting lost from one studio to the other. I gather that there are regular trips and excursions but I am never able to find where they start from. I am becoming increasingly certain that the staff members are prejudiced against me. 

I happen to be passing what is clearly the meeting point for one of the many excursions. I join the queue. As I pass the member of staff in charge she pulls me out the line. She laughs, then tells me I can’t join the excursion. I head to the back of the line. When the others start leaving I join them. As we head through the complex maze of corridors I end up walking alongside the same teacher who earlier told me not to come. She laughs again. 

We step onto a small inflatable boat. We have no paddles, so move it by gently wiggling it from side to side. The protesters cheer as we go by, although the trip is purely personal.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Five

I can’t decide where to get my lunch. It is too early in the spring to get a burrito. I stop at the burrito stand anyway, simply because this year it is run by different people. I watch them make a burrito, hoping I will be impressed enough to buy one. They do not even heat the wrap beforehand.

I know that, inevitably, I will buy my food from сейрок, the post-soviet restaurant serving Swedish food with a Japanese twist. They have two branches situated incredibly close to each other, within the same pricey glass box development. One is supposed to be more Japanese, the other more Swedish. The Swedish branch is more popular, however this is probably due to its location on the edge of the development, meaning more light reaches the unit. Due to its popularity it is, at this time of day, impossible to get a seat. I head to the second, less popular branch. This branch has been radically overhauled, and is now being used to sell produce. They are selling large luscious pineapples and papayas for 99¢. They are also growing their own strawberries. I note jealously that their strawberries plants have already flowered and even have some small, rock hard green fruits appearing.

What I really want to do, I realise, is head to the sea. However I can’t quite remember the correct route to reach the specific area of shoreline I have in mind. I begin to head downhill anyway, but end up only at the dock. I look over the concrete and watch the sea lap sadly up against it.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Four

The hyena is pet of a woman I loved. I gave it to her as a cub. By the time the cub grew up we no longer loved each other. She married a man I disapprove of. He is wealthy and keeps the hyena chained up in the atrium of his extensive house. The hyena wears a muzzle. It is unclear to me whether this is due to a previously undiscovered aggressive aspect in the hyena’s character or whether it is simply to reinforce the impression the unpleasant man wants to give of himself. My hyena has become a status symbol. I don’t really know why it is the hyena I am considering. It is clear that what I should be focused on is the three men (one the husband, the other my mentor, the third unknown) who are busy fighting a lion in the centre of the atrium. Currently the men are using matching, highly polished scimitars in this fight. They all have guns hanging from their waist belts. As I said, this man is very wealthy. My hyena is clearly distressed at the inevitable slow slaughter of its fellow quadruped. I try and entice him towards me. Between his grunts he notices my enticements. I stroke his head and carefully remove his muzzle. Ensuring that the three men are wholly occupied I then begin to slowly release the hyena from his chain. The hyena laughs once this is complete. The husband looks over. The hyena makes as if to leave. The husband advances. He stares at me. His scimitar passes down the side of my head. There is an ear on the floor. I look at it. I feel very weak. I attempt to pick up the ear. There is blood over the white leather of his expensive chair. I know this now because I am lying on the floor, looking at the chair. He bends over me, then begins to hack at one of my legs. I make eye contact with my hyena. The hyena bites the husband, I hear the sound of a shinbone crunching. I smile. The husband grabs the hyena and pins it down using his whole body. The hyena’s head is roughly level with mine. The gun pushes the hyena down further. Each bullet makes his small body quake. He collapses completely, all resistance gone. The husband collapses further. The gun of my mentor pushes him down further. I watch each bullet enter the same point in his spinal cord. I do not make eye contact.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Three

I am orphaned whilst very young but wholly cared for by the supportive community of which my parents were an integral part. The male leader of this community is especially close to me and had a rarely discussed but clearly intensely emotional bond with my parents. He is deeply concerned for me. He tutors me from an early age. it rapidly becomes clear that I am gifted with the same supernatural powers as my parents. This first manifests itself when I open the fridge. The fridge is old. This is because our community, whilst not vehemently opposed to anything, likes to limit its dependence on the outside world. The oldness of the fridge means that the section where the cool box would originally have been is frequently filled with water. I open the fridge and remove one of the small glass jars of yoghurt topped with seeds and berries from the garden. Before closing the fridge I spend a few minutes contemplating the deep pool of water within the sealed cavity at the bottom of the fridge. The cavity cannot be drained without tipping over the whole fridge, or by scooping the water out a little at a time. I have witnessed both of these ungainly methods carried out by the elders. In both instances the fridge quickly refills with water. I close the door of the fridge. As I eat the yoghurt I envisage the base of the fridge being transformed into a luscious aquatic environment. That night I envisage the exact details In greater depth as I sleep. There will be anemones, a large eel, and a starfish. The next morning I am unsurprised to find this exact array of sea life in the aforementioned watery cavity. It is unclear how the eel fits into the space. There are also a number of passing fish which I did not explicitly wish for. The whole scene does not last long. In a couple of hours the fish have moved on, the anemones rotted, and the eel disappeared. There is a deep sludge at the base of the cavity. I feel deeply culpable, emptying a large bottle of sparkling mineral water (one of the few items that our leader fetches from the supermarket) into the cavity. 

On my sixteenth birthday the commune gathers around my bed. The leader is leaning over me, his long locks slightly brushing my face as he offers me my present. It is an iPad. I sense immediately that something is wrong. I should not even know what an iPad is. The leader explains that I have been chosen for a great task, that I am to follow in my parents’ footsteps. I am to be crucified. I immediately fall back to sleep, envisaging myself as the eel, that so long ago, I conjured into the base of the fridge. I am gutted, and placed on the table as part of the ceremonial feast. They leave my head intact, which is all that matters to me. I watch my old body strung up on a cross. The animal struggles my vessel gives out are viewed simply as a logical continuation of the speechless, fear stricken thing that has lived with them since his sixteenth birthday. No one suspects that I am in fact present, astral travelled into the body of the eel, mounted high upon a platter, still the centre of attention, just for a different means. 

To eat the head of an animal, in our culture, is seen as deeply disrespectful.

Once the human’s body is taken down from the cross I transfer my consciousness back across, gently kickstarting the vital process with the surfeit of neural energy floating in the room. I make no secret of my resurrection. It will, I know, put me in a position of great power.

As leader of the commune I make a number of changes. In my early twenties I am suspended beneath a great foil balloon. I bounce up and over the honeysuckle stairs. Julia studies the picture on the wall, deliberately ignoring me.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy Two

I am at the festival, although I do not want to be. There is a close up of five ugly men. I’m standing with my cohort by the water. There is not much we can do. At some point there will be a confrontation.

When the man with the rifle arrives we are not supposed to resist. When the man with the rifle arrives I throw him into the water. When the man with the rifle arrives I grab him and trip him as my father suggested. He stumbles towards the water. He pushes me so that I fall on my back. He heads towards my cohort. I grab the strap of his his rifle and yank him into the canal. He pulls me into the canal. He steps out of the water. I pull him back into the water with me. To stop him I will have to hit him repeatedly. I will have to bash his head against the small concrete lip of the canal until he stops. I do not wish to do this. He pushes me under the water. I pretend to pass out. He drags me onto the shore and starts kicking me. He is mostly kicking me in the ribs. “I will be fine” I think “I will be fine”. He hits me in the head with the butt of his rifle. This doesn’t hurt as much as I suspect. He sits down on my back. I judge by the way the muscles in his arse move that he is now pointing the rifle at my former comrades. “Any of you other fuckers want to try it?” says he. None of the fuckers do. “Any of you other fuckers want to try it?” says he, accompanying himself with a variety of taps and swipes on the fleshy drum kit he now owns. Once his compatriot appears he stands up. I remain where I am. The grass around my mouth is mercifully clean. I can taste canal. When the man’s feet appear I grab them. I drag him into the water. He has a hold of one of my compatriots. I pull his rifle off his shoulder. It lands in the grass. My enemy resurfaces. He is holding a pair of secateurs underneath the ear of the person who is not my enemy. Someone is pointing a rifle at both of them.

I run. I head through the suburbs that surround the festival. I run along the motorway, heading towards the coast. I head onto the long distance path. Ahead of me are two female joggers. They are running slowly, so that they can discuss their gentle lifestyle. I wait until there is a downhill stretch before overtaking them. I hope my bloodied face is not noticed, over discussions of begonias and the latest flood. I head to the coast. I head to the coast.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy One

I am standing in a field. I have been injured in some way. I am wearing a tuxedo and am clean shaven, hair slicked back. In my head I have come up with a new tune that I intend to sing with my swing band. The tune relates to my current predicament and is intended as a riposte to the farmer who is currently facing me, shotgun in hand. I decide the only rational course of action is to try my best to work the tune out to distract myself from the pain.

"Me and your daughter,

my dear farmer

well

we make love like rabbits"

Here, I envisage a big hit from my band coming in- to express this to the farmer I throw my arms out wide and sing it:

"Dooo doo doo doo dah!"

Unfortunately the effort of this gesture leads me to collapse, it also leads me to the conclusion that I have indeed been shot. No matter. The show must go on.

"Me and your daughter

my dear farmer

well

we've got some dirty habits

and

me and your daughter

my new father

well

we make love like rabbits"

I'm kind of kneeling now, so I'm struggling to sing as well as I would like. I can also feel a weird bubbling sensation in my lungs. No matter, the big orchestral hit comes in again:

"Dooo doo doo doo dah!"

When I come to I'm back in my bed. I have a large bandage around my torso. I am on an intravenous drip. I feel pretty fuzzy. Over by the window I see that my plant is growing along nicely. I stand up to inspect it, using the stand of the drip to support myself. As I pull the curtain back I realise it has grown exponentially, and bears little or no relation to the seed I planted. I decide to go and urinate, leaving the issue of the plant for now.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Seventy

I am on a cruise going to Barcelona. My cabin is surprisingly luxurious but poorly lit. I began to investigate but it is late at night. Before falling asleep I establish that there is a walk in wardrobe, a large ensuite bathroom and another door that I imagine leads to a small balcony. I am drunk. When i wake up I realise I failed to fully undress, I am still wearing my organic ultraviolet american apparel briefs and my custom fit ralph lauren shirt (at least, I note with a hint of pride, I managed to unbutton it). I head into the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind me. I realise I have gone through the wrong door. I am outside my cabin. Outside my cabin is the buffet area. I'm standing in the buffet area, at the tail end of peak breakfast time. I immediately turn to head back into my room. Unfortunately, in my confusion and embarrassment, I head in the wrong direction. I wander unhappily around, attempting to look sexually potent in my dishevelled garb. I eventually end up outside on the front deck. I see one of my friends on my cabin's balcony. I persuade them to play the same record extra loud until I can find my way back.

On disembarking from the cruise ship we're faced with a steep series of dunes. We've been given a long list of cultural institutions we need to visit before the end of the day. I remember that the CaixaForum and the Joan Miro Foundation are on a hill somewhere. I still manage to get separated from my two team members. I find myself outside a small shop. There is a bouquet of flowers sellotaped over a badly damaged ATM. I open the door of the shop. There is an impassive looking lady sitting behind the counter, calmly smoking a cigarette. She looks directly at me. I look at the door. Taped to it is a sign reading 'cerrado'. I leave the shop. I continue along the street. I find myself in a park. There are many schoolchildren here, one of whom bears a striking resemblance to the guitarist I was in my first band with. I restrain myself from calling out to him. The theme from I Vitelloni begins to play. Behind me are four inflatable orcas. They are dancing in pairs, vertically, each pair tied together at the nose. A crane swings overhead and the low hum manifests itself.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Nine

There is an infamous lothario who works in the office with me. He takes home a different girl every night. I am out drinking with him when he reveals that the girl he is currently lumbered with is the girl from last night. To maintain his reputation he procures another girl, charming her whilst buying the first girl another drink at the bar. I sit awkwardly at the table. The second girl is a platonic friend of mine and is brought over to our table on this pretext. As we leave the bar I have a strong negative premonition about the night ahead, envisaging the lothatrio's blood spattered bedroom and a scene in which I am pinioned against a tree by a large heavy rock. My friend asks that I accompany the three of them home. We head back towards his flat, located in a large compound through the park. The three lovers quickly leave me behind, running joyously ahead. I attempt to keep up by taking a shortcut- a small path running on the steep hill above the main track. Waiting there is the small blonde boy from my premonition. He is around fourteen and dressed in black. I jump round him and leap down towards the track. Ahead of me is the tree from my premonition. I correctly anticipate the boulder's path as the kid lumbers it through the air at me. I avoid my earlier grisly death. I have no time to feel relieved though as the boy clearly won't give up so easily. I turn round and sock him in the jaw. He goes down easy. I drag him over to a trackside pond. I remove his glasses and place them gently in the grass. I hold his head underwater until he begins to shrink down. Once he is about a foot long I gently lift him up. He is as floppy and deflated as one would expect. I place him gently in the verge and head off before he recovers.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Eight

One of my colleagues who works in the library with me has turned into a tyrannosaurus rex. He is walking up the stairs calmly killing people in the library. I am not overly surprised as I always though he was a bit of a dick. As he ascends the stairs I realise he will probably try and kill me. I try unsuccessfully to drop heavy books (dictionaries, atlases) on his head, running up the stairs before him. Once I reach the top floor I realise I'm in trouble. I get in the lift and head back to the ground floor, intending to get my colleagues to raise the alarm. The lift takes longer than I expected. Once I enter the staff room i see my T.Rex colleague has transformed back into his usual balding chubby self. He grins at me as he is asked how his weekend was. I am sweating heavily. I head out of the staff room and look for something to hit him with. I grab the five a side interlibrary football trophy he helped us win and heft it in my hand. The dino lumbers out towards me. I twat him right across the eyes. As he falls down a message flashes up: RESET FAILED

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Seven

I'm parking my car outside my block of flats when I see a group of hooded youths enter the tower. I sigh and reach into the back of the car for the baseball bat. I don't want another confrontation so wander abstractly around the car park, hoping they will leave whilst eating a pack of cheap ready salted crisps. I bin the empty pack and wander back towards my car. I see two attractive asian girls talking to each other about whether or not they will be able to extricate their mopeds. I offer to move my car. They decline without really listening. A bus of tourists (my shitty apartment being part of a tour of the 'authentic underbelly' of this grim megalopolis) is also causing problems. I offer to move for them too. Again I am declined out of hand. The baseball bat may not be helping my attempts at kindling friendship. A more foolhardy (high) man confronts me over a hula hoop packet circling the parking lot in CO rich zephyrs.

"Pick it up" he shouts.

"Nah man, I had ready salted"

"They are ready fucking salted. Pick them up"

I realise he has taken my expression of crisp preference as further cheek. The hula hoop packet was indeed of the ready salted variety. I head over to the bin muttering:

"Stupid man"

"Stupid cunt? Did you call me a stupid cunt?"

I deposit the crisp packet and turn calmly, the soft woof of incineration harmonising nicely with the gentle thunk as my baseball bat finishes it's parabolic arc to rest upon my shoulder. I align myself careful:

"Stupid man. I called you a stupid man"

"Oh. Alright man. Haha. That's fine."

I show my teeth at him. He walks away. I continue to perambulate. I do not wish to get blood on my door again. There is a rug laid out on the carpet. I head towards it. There are various objects, all junk but arranged into some semblance of order. An old box contains small miscellaneous objects. There is a pile of clothes, mostly basic stuff, marled, jersey and familiar. The neatest pile is of old style paper notebooks. I nudge the pile over with the tip of my bat. There is a name written on top of the notebooks, my (ex) girlfriend's.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Six

I'm lying on my back in a cave listening to the audio book version of harry potter. Emma Watson, who I have known for some time now, comes and lies down next to me. She rests her head on my chest and lifts one headphone:

"What are you listening too?"

"Harry Potter. The audiobook. It's a lot better than the film"

She smiles, kisses me once then falls asleep on me.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Five

I'm wandering around the back streets of Castello, having heard a rumour that Tino Seghal is premiering his new performance piece somewhere round here. I see a group of 3 hipsters and begin following them, their leader's oversized hand-painted jumper suggesting they know were they're going - stylistically at least.

I guess the building we're approaching must be something to do with the old shipyards. One of the hipsters drawls:

"Look, it's glastonbury in a shed"

I realise that I was about to make the same joke as a way of opening negotiations with them and bite my tongue. Clearly we're on the same level, humour wise.

The piece itself consists of a large number of groups of four performers sitting on the ground. They are dressed all in white. They are engaged in playing a complex game involving the rolling of many dice. Elsewhere, to the left of the entrance and to the back of the space, there are two more groups of performers. They are performing more expressive movements around two long carpets and are also shouting periodically.

I have had the foresight to bring a microphone with me, allowing me to describe the performance in a deadpan ironic tone. It's a cute device I've been working on for a while, essentially allowing me to hold forth on a whole variety of things under the pretext of radio. I don't feel like people are paying enough attention to me. I carefully put the microphone away and tie my shirt up, in a fashion similar to that of Britney Spears in the video for her 1998 hit "Hit Me Baby One More Time". I begin to dance around the room, loudly shouting 'lalalalalala'. A short friendly ginger-haired girl joins in with me. She looks friendly but I doubt she is an intellectual. People are clapping enthusiastically.

We are taken to one side by what I presume is a security guard. He takes out an electricity bill, and begins to explain to us that what we did was illegal.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Four

Two of them appear in the lift that comes down to our hideout. As the first jumps out I stick my leg out, causing her to fall onto her head. Thunk followed by a lil sleep. The second is already running towards our central nutrient pool, she enacts a graceful dive to enter, only somewhat hindered by her sportswear. I dive after her and grab her ankle, my nudity now a definite advantage. Once in the fluid we both turn, leaving me hanging off her ankle. I pull her down, trying to remain threatening. Once we make eye contact I get an erection. She doesn't mention it, instead maintaining eye contact in order to convey her desire to join our team. 

I convey my lack of convincement. I metagrobolize her somewhat with non-standard hand slanguage. She responds by stating the name of the sports team we use, the official government name that we use to promote our rebel activities.

I pull my gun out and shoot a pack of vacuum packed chestnuts that floats above us. It takes a while for it to become clear that I've got a hit, package slowly filling and sinking. I silently pass the gun to her. She aims for a vacked pack of dried sweetcorn kernels and rips it apart in less time than me. I show slight signs of admiration, my erection refusing to abate. I give her the hand signal to stay and indicate that I will fetch her compatriots, including the girl I earlier knocked out. She's not at the lift shaft but I have a pretty good idea where she'll head.

I'm outside every dodgebods favourite licensed fuckathon, taking place in one of my preferred dive bars. It's one of their many nights where only guys pay in. Their 7 credits earn them a 7 digit unique number, flashing up through their skin at apposite moments. The number is generated by an algorithm that's supposed to maximise everybody's chances of getting laid. Girls are numbered too but their numbers shift according who's already fucked, ubicomp as always monitoring your fertility. I'm allowed in for free. I'm just too damn handsome to pay. Or it's a glitch. Or some admin algorithm has calculated that today is the best point for me to die, and I'll meet a nasty end inside.

The girl's compatriots are wearing the same brand as her, either custom or too cheap and nasty for anyone outside their little cell to bother with it. I'm feeling edgy, a ginger admin with dog collar trying to talk as I head to the toilets taken as a sign of violence on the horizon. I hussle the hotties out and herd them down the quay to the local medicare vehicle that'll take them down to the lower levels. I'm too worried about my ratings in the league table to take such an obviously legal form of transport. My legs playing up again and I'm falling behind. The admin is in hot pursuit and I grab a handy looking wooden shaft, ready to fuck if he so desires. The battered van our sorry squad uses is just round the corner but I deliberately slow down, my hacked digiware releasing procolene xtra into my blood stream as the priest approaches. I turn and take my time, going all pain kanji on his sweet white flesh.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Three

I'm browsing the butter section of my local supermarket, eyes naturals drifting into the more esoteric goat butter section. As a long term fan of goat's cheese I've always been mildly tempted. As my head sends my gaze lasers in that way they pick up on a discrepancy. Emu butter. Emu butter? I suppose it's because emu's are flightless, and therefore closer to being mammals. The packaging, I note, as I begin to push my trolley into the cheese section, espouses the health benefits of emu butter. I begin to whistle the tune of "What's New Pussycat?' and prepare to browse the smorgasbord of cheese, briefly considering that the first syllable of this nordic import, taken without supplements, also equates to butter.

[meversusmysubconscious]

Sixty Two

••••'s being hacked, his girlfriend standing behind him as his face slowly disappears, leaving the thin metal tracery of his ubicomp hanging in the air where his head used to be, the circuitry rapidly colonising the rest of his body. His hand reaches out towards me. I pull the taser out, scrambling the ubicomp's gone bad software and drag his girlfriend away from him.

Later she tries it on with me, and I see the by now all too familiar shift in her contact lenses- the only real sign of infection being a failure for them to fully allow for pupil contraction. She looks pretty baked and I'm in the mood for no chances. I taser her too then move on.