James Dean

wow, I had odd dreams...first of all I dreamed I ate magic mushrooms, and I
had the oddest experiences...I went to this mens' toilets and there was this
really aggressive guy there who was pissing all over everyone and shouting,
I nearly got into a pissing contest with him but then thought better of it
and started laughing instead, telling him he'd better not hang around in the
mens' toilets all night or everyone he'd pissed on would try and kick the
shit out of him. He seemed to appreciate the advice, and became friendly,
and came outside with me...then I started coming up on the mushrooms, and
the sky was the most vivid shade of blue, the grass was deep, lush green -
everything was realler than real and so beautiful to look at. I think for a
while I just wandered around enjoying how beautiful everything was.

The I met James Dean, who had come back from the dead and was wearing his
outfit from Rebel Without A Cause, the red leather jacket etc. He was kind
of running around doing his 'cool' act, and I had this sickening realization
of what a trap he was in now...the whole world knew who he was, James Dean,
the icon of coolness for an older time, and now he was trying to be that
person, and it was grotesque, it didn't make any sense any more, and instead
of being himself he was trying to be this mythic-self that the world knew
him to be...in his red leather jacket, posing to be cool, posing to be James
Dean, but who is he? I am kind of fascinated with James Dean, a little. He
seems so much more of a myth than a real man, like an idea of a person, and
the real person behind it seems to be just a boy, who loved fast cars and
the cool image, and who wanted the world to fall in love with his stunning

Spider Temple Dream

I'd been wandering through the rain forest for a long time. The air was sodden  with rain and I hadn't seen anything except massive green leaves and ferns and water-darkened tree trunks for days. I had only the vaguest understanding of where I was - Vietnam or Cambodia,deep in a forgotten part of the primordial woodland. I came across a dark door at the front of a temple overgrown  with vines, and I walked inside.

After my eyes adjusted to the darkness I found I was in a gigantic enclosed space, roughly circular, surrounded by huge, carved walls of dark brown stone. There were countless alcoves and gargoyles and buttresses rising to a smooth, domed ceiling which was almost invisible in the gloom. The floor was a mass of large, flat paving stones, slightly lighter in colour than the walls, cracked and torn up in places. The air was utterly still and silent, with no sound from the jungle outside. It felt like nobody had been there in thousands of years.

In the center of the temple was a huge stone structure, like a series of raised circular plinths with large statues all around, twice the height of a human being. I walked closer, amazed at the hush, and the heaviness of the air, and I saw that the statues were basalt spiders with bulbous bodies and arched legs.

I started to climb. For some reason I was able to do this with no problem, even though the stone spiders were so enormous that I could walk underneath them only slightly hunched over. I reached the top of the plinth, standing on a thin spire that almost touched the ceiling of the temple. From here I could see the pattern of the floor paving and the statues, but I couldn't interpret it. The language was long dead. As I watched, the air shifted slightly, and I felt something change, like feeling an electrical charge build near a power station.

The spiders moved. As I watched, they descended with graceful steps from their places on the plinth, their feet making no sound whatsoever as they touched the floor. Stone legs flexed and bent with the delicacy of ballerinas. They arranged themselves in spiral patterns around the center of the temple, and began to dance.

The dance was ancient, its meaning utterly lost in time, forgotten along with the names and families of the priests and acolytes and worshippers to whose religion the temple was consecrated. It was a sacrament from a time when the world functioned according to different rules, and yet here in the deep forest the spiders were still dancing, every night, their feet moving along the lines of a sacred geometry that described a different universe.

I watched for a while, until I felt myself rising out of the temple. The spiders grew smaller and smaller, until mist started covering them, and the walls began to stretch and fade, and I left that dream and passed into another.

Assimilating Crowley

I was in Knock in the West of Ireland, wandering through the prefabricated  chapels and the fruit machine souvenir shops, when I felt a strange call, and headed out towards the medical buildings...I found this squat, grey hospice, and walked past the windows...and there was someone behind the window, in the showers, who was frantically trying to get to me, to see me...it was Aleister Crowley.

I had to trick my way past the hospice wardens to get to see him by pretending I had other business there. Outside his cubicle was a life-size picture of him in full Masonic regalia, and beside it hung robes, sigils and flowers...it was magnificently camp, a parody of mysticism. He was squatting under the showers in depression or some kind of senility in this hopeless grey place, but he became very alert and sane when we talked. We laughed at the doctors together. He seemed happy to see me, or seemed to recognise me in some way, as if he'd been waiting for me, or someone like me, to come along.

He told me "A god is not bound to the Earth. A god is held by no strictures1." I told him he sounded like J.R.R. Tolkien, and he seemed amused. He told me that he was not responsible for a lot of his excesses of personality during his life. He seemed to really love me and want to communicate with me. Sometimes he looked old and haggard, and other times young and fat.

I told him I was born on his birthday - October 12th - and he looked at me extremely intently and with great urgency, trying to see if I was telling the truth, because he thought this was very important. His hands were gnarled, with long yellow nails. He put one of his fingers in my mouth, and it tasted bad, salty and sour.

Something odd happened when I woke up...I had the feeling, as I was rising out of the dream, that it had ended because my sister was too tired...it seemed that she had been 'channeling' Crowley for me, and couldn't maintain it...it was strange. When I was fully awake, I realized that he would always be there for me - that I could look inside any time and ask him a question, if I needed to.


1. I realize now that he was trying to tell me that a god cannot evolve.

Samuel Beckett gives me props

I knew  I was dreaming, because Samuel Beckett was standing behind the hedge at the bottom of the garden, smoking a cigarette whose glowing red tip floated in the twilight  like a firefly. The dusk had brought a thick feeling of summer and smoke to the air, and I wandered across the uncut grass to talk to him.

He was dressed all in black, wearing a leather jacket and turtleneck and jeans. His face was deeply lined and his hair stiff like a yellow brush, just as he appeared in photographs towards the end of his life. He was reluctant to make eye contact, and pulled irritably at his cigarette, which I noticed was held the wrong way around, so that hot ash and unfiltered smoke poured into his lungs with every breath.

What are you doing here? I asked.
Well, they say I'm coming back into vogue now.

He shuffled slightly, staring at his feet. He wanted to tell me something, but was looking for words that wouldn't sound false. Finally he looked up and spoke softly:

You've got a strong heart. I can hear it from here. It'll carry you through.

He flicked his cigarette into the grass and walked away without saying goodbye. It was obvious to me that he hated melodrama and falsity above all things, and that he knew, with a painful awareness, how hard it can be to communicate truly and sincerely in words, so that someone can understand exactly what you mean. I listened to my heart for a few seconds - that barely audible pulse in the inner ear that tells you you're alive.