I should make a graphic for this, hang on.
My subconscious loves to fuck with me, especially at the weekends, so I’ve decided that as a cheap means of providing content, plus as an insight into my past, we’ll be recording dreams from now on with context.
This morning, it was all about our first house. It was a railway cottage (two up, two down) with the third room converted to a bathroom quite late on. When we moved in, the outside toilet still existed. The kitchen was an afterthought, literally and metaphorically, but it was within our budget and allowed a notion of autonomy. One Christmas we built our own fireplace in the front room, and there was a painting party to make the place habitable.
It was the place I first accessed the Internet in. It was also the place where I took the phone call that my husband’s father had died, and I would have to be the person to tell him. As a result, it is probably no wonder that my brain returns there periodically.
The house is in various states of disrepair, though from the outside looks as it always did. Within, it becomes the TARDIS: multiple rooms, often dilapidated and damp, which as wallpaper is removed or panels exposed becomes affected by entropy. Small cupboards open up into vast, uneven spaces. There is wood panelling, boxes of damp clothing, and this morning what was clearly a mummified corpse amongst the decomposing woodwork.
My birth family is always somewhere, causing trouble and arguing over something. Normal life continues unabated too: in this case, a field hockey match was being played outside, with a stadium conveniently located next to the house. I can remember seeing images that reminded me of New York, even though this was clearly in my hometown. It also appears that the house was, at some point, a car dealership. Before it has been exposed as a cinema and a nightclub, with the various signage that would entail.
There were also a lot of Christmas decorations around, in various boxes across the house. The Council arrived shortly before waking up, I’d assumed to condemn the property as unsafe. Instead, the house was declared an Area of Special Historical Interest and I’d be expected to live there and restore everything to it’s original state…
I promise to be as honest as possible when I record dreams. If it’s adult, however, I may skip over the more lurid details…