HI AGAIN
bit of music :
YOU ARE AT A RAVE WITH A BATTERY POWERED PLASTIC DUCKDream. I am in the open European city space that is sometimes Berlin and sometimes Paris in dreams. I’m walking with Marco Pierre White:
There are two restaurants in a large courtyard with trees and tables outside. He knows them both and we choose the one on the left, ordering white wine, and veal with plums. We begin talking about fruit and food, and then about women. I tell him about my encounters over the past year. He is frown-smiling and listening intently. He advises me to choose someone to stick with. We eat a small amount of food and the whole meal is like a breath, it doesn’t really matter in the dream. He recognises me as a cook and this, I think, is why he is out here with me, taking an interest. He asks the head waitress at the other restaurant how many customers are in this evening - next door is doing rather well - and he implies that they can always steal the customers who can’t find a table there. We continue walking through the city. I tell him about my poached pears in red bush tea. He says, no tea, let the pears speak for themselves in the consider everything that you do voice, with a small closed-hand gesture.
*
I’m watching football on tv and two players collide at speed. One of them, a burly bald man, is collapsed, not moving. He is left static on the floor for a while. Medics come onto the pitch. The camera stays close. It’s 5, then 10 minutes and he is still not responding. The commentator is sputtering and speculating- he gets a whisper in the ear and exclaims, as though he’s not live on air, “he’s dead!? He’s fucking dead!”
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