Drug Dreams

It's been a long time since I loosened my tenacious ego's hold on my consciousness by indulging in drugs of any kind, with the noble exception of caffeine as delivered in a tasty brown beverage, which in any case serves only to temporarily sharpen the mind whilst eventually exhausting the body. Ninety nine per cent of the time I am certain this self-control is a good state of affairs, but every so often I wonder whether total abstinence is such a good thing.

I can easily point to the benefits of not drinking alcohol, not smoking tobacco, not seeking the comfort of cannabis, nor self-medicating with the great, varied range of pharmaceutical candies which are easily available in Britain. My life is stable and my moods are manageable. My body is fit and my sleep is sound. My friendships are not based on a co-dependent self-annihilation, and that raw, inflamed, eventually insatiable greed for sensory overload is refreshingly absent. Not that I dwelt long in these tangled jungles of desire; but visit them I did, from time to time, somehow managing to avoid becoming prey to the beasts who inhabit those dark spaces.

To fall back now I would have to risk the balance I have worked hard to achieve both mentally and physically. It wasn't so long ago that I was told it would be necessary for me to remain on thyroid-controlling drugs for the rest of my born days. I recall the doctor who discharged me, fit and well, casually letting me know that the drugs I was on for eighteen months would probably have had the "side effect" of damaging my bone marrow... I am content with tea, meditation, exercise and acupuncture. My sex life is good, my work is improving. I feel good with myself for having taken the decision and stuck to it to lead a cleaner life.

Still, I dream. We discussed, my artist friend and I, last night in the pub, she with a small beer, me with a back coffee, the necessity and the pain of restraint. We debated the balance to be found between letting go and holding on. She told us a tale of Easter indulgence which left her reeling and which made us all laugh. The following weekend, she said, on the same tip, someone had ended up in hospital. We needed a blast, a boogie, we decided, a night out, music would do it, companionship and moving our bodies. We parted, and later I slept peacefully under the full moon and I dreamed of getting high.

In the dream I questioned my actions, even as I found myself repeating long discarded behaviour, going through the embedded ritual, savouring the anticipation, the method and the hit. I was gloriously and thoroughly stoned, my heart sang and my eyes burned, my pirate nature was extravagant, jubilant and victorious. Retracing the old steps, I felt the guilty rush and experienced the mental meltdown, and though fast asleep, I knew I would regret it later.

Except, later, I woke up, with a clear head, next to the woman I love, had a cup of tea, and wrote this.

Everything Is Recorded

My use of social media Seesmic is altering the way I dream. There is a reason for my becoming involved in this nascent community, aside from the fact that I find such early-stage communities fascinating. I seem to have connected with a group of likeminded people whom I wouldn't have minded meeting in any situation, it's as simple as that.

March 30th is, we are told, the lifting of the alpha-veil, the grand opening of the gates, and the moment which this sometimes cliquey and self-defensive bunch is in some measure dreading, and recently there have been self-reflective discussions about whether this will spell the inevitable downward spiral, YouTube style, for the site.
Maybe, maybe, and only time will tell whether the policies of community care (I love that, it sounds like we are all deranged) which have borne fruit so far will work as Seesmic is scaled up. There is always noise in any system; success depends on the ration of noise to conversation, as much as it does on the level(s) of discourse available. One of the delightful things about Seesmic for me is that I can simultaneously be deeply serious and childishly playful, which is exactly how my mind works.

If Seesmic plunges inexorably downmarket, it will not fail, though it will become a very different kind of social event. Given that users can re-create smaller Seesmic spaces within the system, which suit the conversations that they want to have, this might benefit many people, especially those shy ones who lack the courage to leap into the sometimes hurly-burly of the ever-increasing speed of the pubic timeline and speak from the heart, those sensitive intellectuals who wish to carefully tease out a subtle idea, or just folks who articulate clumsily and don't want to be derided for their pains.

Attractive though the unified single space is, using Twitter as an example, since when did anyone try to use that highly populated public timeline as a resting place? It would be like trying to recline on an avalanche, a total impossibility. To keep the junk levels down, it would seem that some elementary tools are required, including the ability to create private groups, separate timelines, and to block individuals who insist on saying "Hitler" whenever they show up before the garden is opened up to a million happy picnickers.

Meanwhile, the dream. I dreamed I was on the phone to a certain well-known podcaster... and oh, the air turned blue. What I don't say in this Seesmic is that I walked about for the first few minutes of today in the mistaken belief that it had actually happened. So, perhaps everything IS recorded, and perhaps Seesmic is indeed real life.

Mauled By Puffins

I do not recall which curmudgeonly commentator pronounced that there was nothing so boring as hearing other people's dreams, but I've never agreed with that sentiment. Aside from the fact that the psychologist in me (get out, Carl, you've been in there long enough) finds the tumult of inner worlds a fascinating landscape to explore, the link between consciousness and unconsciousness, the willed and the unbidden, the instinctive and the planned is at the root of all creativity.

I have a good memory, and bizarrely for a person with no psychology training, a tendency to remember the dreams of others, especially those people close to me, but not exclusively. In the last two days I have been told of three dreams, one of which was a second-hand account of a sibling's dream, which are all striking and somehow resonating the bell of my own mind.

Dreams in their semi-randomness seem often to reveal pre-occupations and neuroses, if not obsessions. Obsession, like paranoia, is a much misunderstood term and an often too casually applied definition. When people talk about their obsessions what they mostly mean is neurosis, the dents on the mind left by traumas which, unresolved, cause the twitch, the facial tic, heightened states of anxiety, even phobia. Mild neurosis, shallow but persistent psychological imprinting, is suffered by many, obsession by very few. Seeing people in the grip of genuine obsession is enough to make you think twice about using the word lightly.

My mother's neuroses were several, but many of them are resolved now, or at least less constricting. One thing that remains however is the claustrophobia which derives (we think) from being in bomb shelters. "Open the door," she'd suddenly yell, "you know I hate being shut in!" She was quite open about it and without shame, demanding that we accomodate her. The crude semi-submerged Andersen shelters offered blast protection and some respite from falling masonry, that was about it. It must have been terrifying, hearing bombs drop and knowing that a direct hit would be the end. So this is an entirely logical neurosis, with an easy to determine cause. Less so the fear of heights, which she managed to pass on to me. Not all heights, in my case, just occasional, very high heights. Sometimes, even on TV I get the pit of the stomach, bollock-tightening sickness which conjures up the dread.

I used to have dreams of falling, especially when i worked on floor 15 of a tower block. Spectacular views, and no fear whilst in situ, but over a period of months I'd awake suddenly in cold sweat with a gasping intake of air: not a nice way to spend the night. I have every so often experienced lucid dreams, and I believe it is possible to encourage and develop lucid dreaming, in which flight is possible - this would be a great remedy. In waking life, I conquered vertigo by climbing Cornish sea cliffs, but not entirely.

So, this morning's dream was relayed to me about an hour ago by my good friend Egg, who told me a convoluted and dynamic tale of money, bullying and protection with the excellent detail of me stuffing Pierre Cardin shirts into his bag. To avoid the evil school-type bully, David Bailey, he lied, said they were a duvet. See, even in other people's dreams I have good fashion taste.

Yesterday's two dreams come via Mrs P who dreamed she was being mauled by foxes. Disturbed, but understandable if you live in a green London suburb. London is full of foxes. I am thinking of starting a campaign to bring back hunting on horseback with hounds, but in cities, where they are needed. The third dream was also relayed to me by Mrs P whose brother dreamed the very same night that he was being mauled by puffins. As she told me this in a London street, her face lit up and we fell about laughing. That's the fraternal difference showing through: the clever urban predator versus the swimming, tunneling seabird. As for the mauling, bite marks, beak marks, you pays your money, you takes your choice. Except, we don't choose our dreams, do we? If we could pay to have dreams we wanted to have, someone would make a fortune. In that uncontrolled space, dreams choose us, they find us to show us things about ourselves which sometimes leave us confused, sometimes enlightened, and sometimes most marvellously amused.

Your Knowledge Will Not Save You

After a break of years, I've returned to the practice of meditation, and it's having some direct results on my sense of myself, my well being, and my dreams.

In the days, I am calmer. My body and mind feel definitely more aligned. Small aches and pains, both psychological and physical, are diminished, and I am able to address difficulties with greater application. However my dreams are full of holes, like a fucking cosmic colander, and I am suddenly cast in a series of short, scary films starring various aspects of myself, in scenarios including: murder, threat, hiding, being starved of oxygen, and sophisticated theft using explosives as part of a team.

Each dream presents me with conundrums which survive into waking life; it is as though my morals were being paraded before me, my self-knowledge ruthlessly exposed via convincing but trite narratives, each casting a subtly different light on the chaos within me, hidden under several layers of carefully organised intellect, which which the honest inventory I am wont to make is now revealing.

Sometimes, after meditation, as after wakening, I am left with a key phrase or vision which follows me into the day, and today's post-meditation phrase is the title of this post. My knowledge of myself will not save me from having to experience these dream scenarios; indeed I believe that there are reasons, probably related to my deeper health, which are causing this current spate of night dramas. Superficially, it's the move. Moving is third in stress terms, so they say, after berievement and divorce.

Beneath that, it's the fact that I have noticed unavoidable truths about myself, my life, my direction, my position, and the meditation process is a magnifying glass. Since I hate sleeping pills, and my gorgeous girlfriend doesn't mind me waking her up if I need to relate something in order to externalise it, then I'll bear with it for now, and presume that this, too, will pass.