So in my dream I’m dreaming I’m an old woman. The old woman is dreaming that she’s an even older woman. Who herself is dreaming she’s an Irish Italian failed writer in Sydney. I’m not sure who’s most disappointed; me, the old woman, or the older woman, but whatever.
In this dream I’m a terrorist, or at least I help terrorists, or at least somebody thinks I do or am, or something like that. I get caught anyway, though I’m not sure what for, possibly helping someone escape. Someone who's a terrorist, or at least somebody who helps terrorists, or at least who somebody thinks helps terrorists, etc.
Anyway, my colleagues and I, who at this point are all female, and in their late twenties, and wearing khaki camouflage jumpsuits like me, are chased through some sandy ruins. Myself and one other escape, and find a portal into some kind of suburbia, where we think we’ll be safe. But we’re wrong. Suburbia, or at least this manifestation of it, has SWAT team cops on every corner, as well as be-suited ASIO agents. There’s no escape, so we just wander through them and happily accept our fate.
Now we’re in a Balinese courtroom, awaiting trial, except there doesn’t seem to be any security guards around. We just politely wait, never considering escape. It all really hits me when I go to the bathroom. It unisexual, and the uneven floor is filled with many undoored loopy layers of long, rivering urinals, like it was designed by M.C. Escher and Gaudi. There’s a woman casually sitting on one toilet bowl/loopy blue ceramic trough thingy, and an elderly Indonesian rice farmer straining against a corner, in need of a little fibre obviously. My biggest concern is if this is what the courtroom loos are like then how weird are the urinals in the actual prison going to be?
Did I mention that, in my dream, I’m eating the pines from a pine tree? No? It’s a week before Xmas, and all is quite loud. They’ve just set up the pine tree in the mental hospital on a Greek island where I’m incarcerated, and I’m explaining that it’s an old Greek custom to eat the pine leaves, though secretly we’re cheating and eating store-bought pines which we gathered before the shops all closed, us canny bastards us.
So, in this dream, in short, I’ve been committed because I’m madder even than Greeks, and perhaps for my involvement in sexy terrorist fantasies, or perhaps for eating pine leaves in Gaudi’s Balinese urinal, or perhaps because, like all reality, I’m just a character in an old woman’s bad dream… whatever.