keep moving

In a pool. My blankets, sheets and quilt are heaped on the cement at the side of the pool. As I swim, I see the quilt slip off the pile and into the water. There is nothing to be done so I continue swimming.

I am angry with someone I care about. Rather than say anything, I lie belly down on a board, much like a surfboard without any fins, and slide down the hill, following the path. I race down at breakneck speed, shoot past trees and driveways, steer my board by leaning left or right until I swerve around a sharp bend and reach the busy road. Then I climb the hill toward the house, board under my arm, calm.

venomous snake

Snakes. The grounds around the house were infested. Snakes different shades of brown and gold, snakes of varying sizes. Snakes under the cover of scrub and grass, silently gliding. Snakes across the path. I was careful not to disturb them, to step on them, but the light was low and they were camouflaged. The gold snakes were not as frightening, seemed not to be aggressive. But the brown snakes ... I stepped too close to a mottled brown snake. It reared up, darted forward, lashed out, attacked. I grabbed it around the throat and held it away from me. It struggled to wriggle out of my fist and its skin rippled forward so that its head began to disappear into its neck, pulling backward. I had to tighten my grip, prevent it from escaping. Its tail thrashed about and I pulled its skin back so that its head remained above my hand. Furious, the snake opened its mouth, baring its teeth; not two fangs, but about six or eight long sharp teeth that protruded from its jaws, fanned out. I held the snake as far from me as possible, knowing that the snake was desperate to strike. Venom sprayed out of the snakes teeth, fountained into the air, spraying the surrounds and my throat. As soon as the snake had exhausted its supply of poison, I mustered my strength and threw it as far away as I could. I saw it land on the bush floor and I turned and ran.

unclean house

I had returned home after some time away, but home was no longer the place I recognised. I lived in a large house with many, many rooms housing people with whom I have worked over the years. In fact, as the dream progressed, the house became increasingly like a place of work, even though it was furnished with the usual items one would find in a home. I was in the bathroom, doing my best to shower and dress, but the room had been left in a mess. Damp towels hung on the rails, the bath was filled with dirty water, the toilet was not flushed and sported drips on the seat, the shower needed a scrub, and various personal items had been discarded on the floor. For some reason, I needed to hurry - a job to do? - but I determined to return to clean the house from top to bottom. While I readied myself, I flung the soiled towels into a heap on the tiled floor and opened the bathroom door, so at least I could create a washing pile and air the room. Two women with whom I have worked closely were walking about in the hall, also preparing to go somewhere to work. I told them that I intended to clean out the rooms, that I like a clean house. They obviously agreed and yet they had neglected to keep the house in order.

feathers

My father had soft yellow feathers on the soles of his feet. Not stuck to his feet but growing out of his skin, sprouting like the plumage of a luxuriously fluffy bird.

nightmare

Night. The home of my youth. My family, gone. Stay very still. Hold my breath. Something unfolding. A woman and three men do something wrong, something unspeakable. They don't know I'm there. From another room, I spy them. They gather, look down at something out of my view. Pin something down. A squeal, blood and a satisfied smile on the woman's face. Something killed - an animal? I run. Into the dark, bare feet on the drive, loud steps follow. Search for my car. Gone. I'm not fast on foot. No choice but to hide. Run down a sharp-stoned lane into shadow. Scale a fence and creep under a neighbour's house, bury myself behind the foundations, disappear into the dark.

octopus arms

We were in my grandparents' home, down the road from where I lived when I was a child. I was in the third bedroom, the spare room with a double bed. My friend called me and I found her in the first bedroom where I slept over many a night when I was young, in a single bed alongside the window. The bed was gone and a big silver refrigerator stood where the cupboard had been. The fridge door was ajar and my friend was looking inside and to the floor in horror. 'Look', she said. There were two long octopus arms, one on the top shelf of the fridge door and the other on the floor, writhing and wriggling as though they were alive. The arm on the shelf was obviously trying to get inside a jar that held something soaking in a milky liquid and the arm on the floor was travelling across the carpet, back toward the fridge. We stared, fixated on the macabre spectacle, not sure what to do. What was it inside the jar that so compelled the suckered arms? Suddenly my friend was angry and said something I didn't understand. Her sentence made no sense and the words seemed mixed up. She stormed out of the room and phoned someone, seemingly to do something about the wandering arms. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed an axe, thinking that my friend was upset because I had not acted quickly enough. I hurried back to the first bedroom and my friend had already returned there, also wielding an axe. She swung her axe through the air, chopping the arm on the floor in half. I tried to knock the other arm off the refrigerator-door shelf onto the floor, but in so doing, I knocked over a container of food, which spilled all over the carpet. Now the second octopus arm was squirming about in a mess of lentils. I painstakingly scraped everything up off the floor, depositing it onto some newspaper, which I disposed of. The person my friend had called had arrived and now they were leaving together. I was upset as my friend was still angry with me and I was not sure why. She had spoken to me a few more times but, frustratingly, I could not understand her words. Sitting on the floor in the first bedroom, I called out to her, desperate for her to come back so that we could work it out. Instead, her friend came into the room and, with her face very close to mine, so close I observed her mascara, said it was sad that I would be sitting at home crying, working all day on my birthday while my friend was out. I was shocked to realise that it was my birthday and even sadder to think I would spend it alone, working.

I woke from this dream with the sadness in my body. Rather than beginning the day this way, I chose to close my eyes and return to the scene of the dream. Although I didn't fall asleep, I imagined the dream playing out a different way; I imagined a happier dream. At the point where we were standing, watching the octopus arms wriggle towards the jar, I asked my friend what was in the jar. She told me it was the rest of the octopus, soaking in milk to soften it for cooking. We decided that, seeing as the octopus body parts seemed to be alive, we would return them to the ocean and, because it was my birthday, we would take the day off, swim and enjoy the day and each other's company. We collected the arms and the jar and took the car that was garaged underneath the house, driving through the suburbs to the sea. Once there, we emptied the contents of the jar and the two arms into the waves, leaving them to reunite, and we frolicked on the shore. I felt much happier after re-imagining my dream.

facing fear

I was living in an old building with others. We seemed to be squatting for the rooms were derelict and unfurnished, with no secure windows or doors. A group of young boys sat in the entrance room against the wall. They were always there, and I did not trust them. They heckled people as they came and went, harrying them at times. I kept my distance. Although I seemed to own very little, I still had my handbag where I  safeguarded anything of value, including a substantial sum of money - perhaps my means out of there. One night I noticed my handbag missing and looked immediately to the boys. Sure enough, they had it; I could see them huddled in the doorway, rifling through the contents. I called to my friend, telling her the boys had my bag. But, though I feared them, it was up to me to retrieve it. I walked into the cold cement room and faced the gang of boys who were sitting in a line against the wall. Demanding they return my bag, I threatened them, yelling at them, saying I would get them if they didn't, I would hurt them. As soon as I had spoken, I felt great remorse. I looked at them, ashamed, and told them I was sorry, that I would not hurt them. Instead of threatening them, I spoke my simple truth: my bag is important to me and I want it back. To my surprise, they handed it to me and, upon checking, nothing was astray. Still, one of the boys jeered at me. He stood up and moved obtrusively into my personal space. Again, instead of reacting in fear, I looked at him, I really saw him. I asked his name. He looked up, into my eyes for the first time and told me. And, realising we had never before truly acknowledged each other as people, rather we had regarded one another with animosity because of our fear, I told him my name. Something shifted. The fear was gone - mine and the boy's. We had become allies, friends and, although unspoken, I knew we would look out for one another, protect one another from this day on.