artists' house

I drove to the other side of the mountain and parked in the street outside a house. Although I had no idea who lived there, I felt drawn to visit. I walked up the stoney drive to the old, rambling house. In the front yard, hidden from the road by tall trees, were perhaps a dozen men in their thirties and forties, all handsome. Each of them seemed engaged in an industrious, creative endeavour - painting, sculpting, building, drawing, making. I entered a large room and looked around at the paintings and art pieces, some finished, some in the making. All were very good. I was particularly taken by the beginnings of a portrait of a young woman - really just a sketch on stretched canvas, with a reddish undercoat. The women of the house entered - again, about a dozen young women in their thirties and forties, all beautiful - and each took up whatever pursuit she had temporarily left. One woman resumed working on the portrait and there was no doubt it was in her likeness. She asked to see photos of my dog, so I walked to the car to retrieve my phone on which they are stored. She spied my red car and seemed, surprisingly, impressed, though the car is modest. I searched for the photos but, pressing all the wrong icons, she took my phone and somehow made the photos appear on pieces of paper that, once viewed, fluttered to the ground. It was time to go. I drove back home but, compelled, I later returned. This time the house was more like an old, stately apartment building, the apartments all on one floor. I walked up the drive, into the building and found myself in a large foyer. The dark brown wooden door of each apartment opened to the foyer, so I walked around the space, peering through each one. Although each apartment was unique, they shared a similar aesthetic and creative beauty. I could see most bedrooms were furnished with deep red curtains and the beds were dressed in sumptuous cream or ivory antique lace quilts and pillowslips. Rather than assuaging my curiosity, it was piqued. I felt drawn, almost envious of the inhabitants, feeling they had found a lifestyle I longed for. Again, it was time to go. Later, I visited a third time. This time the community was gathered for a celebration in a hall beside the house. It was night and most of them had already arrived and were seated inside, while some milled outside, greeting one another. Standing outside, I could see through the window to the candlelit room. Beautiful people laughed and talked. Music played. Platters of food adorned long tables. A woman outside began to tell me a story from her life, but one of the men insisted on catching my attention. He stood next to me with his young son and also began talking. I tried to concentrate on the woman's story, but was distracted by the man. We talked for a while and, although I enjoyed his company, I became aware our conversation was arousing jealousy and gathered this man was the leader of the group, perhaps sought after by the other women. Deciding it was time to go, I drove back across the mountain to my home, where I lived alone in an old apartment. I opened the door, flicked on the light and opened another door to let my dog in. She wasn't there, but five young puppies of various breeds spilled out of the enclosure, into the room and ran outside. Although I was concerned for the pups, I was more worried about the whereabouts of my dog. I looked around the room - my furniture and belongings were disheveled and leftover roasted pumpkin wedges with feta cheese lay discarded on plates on the table. The lights blew and I was in darkness. I felt my way down the hall and opened the door to my bedroom where I found my mother and sister sleeping with my dog safely resting at the foot of the bed. Relieved, I ran into the garden to find the puppies. I tried to catch them as they scampered about, but, as I captured each one, it turned into a small bird and, opening my hands, I let each fly away, until all were gone.

gatecrashers

We were in the back yard of the home where one of my closest friends lived when she was a child. It was night and everything seemed chaotic, dangerous. Too many people milled around - in the yard, throughout the house - as though the party had been gatecrashed. We were tense, sensing violence, and decided to leave. Five of us piled into my small car, which was parked in the front yard, with B behind the wheel and me in the passenger seat. As we turned to pull out of the driveway, a huge 4WD ute with headlights on high beam pulled in, engine revving, looming over us, forcing us to reverse. Young angry men were in the ute, yelling, and loud, aggressive music roared out the windows, base thudding. The ute spun around, tyres spinning, ripping up grass and spraying mud everywhere, circling around us. B was infuriated and, instead of driving away, turned our car to face them. I screamed at her to go and, as I did, the men in the ute fired guns, shooting at us, at the house, at everything in sight. B swung the car around, the rest of us ducked and covered our heads, and we pulled out of the driveway, speeding up the road through the suburban streets. We were unhurt.

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.

trapped

Early evening and the streets were in darkness. I was in an unfamiliar town, heading home, walking with three tall, burly, bearded mountain men. I liked them immensely, but I knew them little. We reached a narrow lane and the man started down it. I hesitated, scanning the crossroad, realising I had a choice: I could go with them, trust them, or walk back the way we had come and navigate the dark streets alone. Neither option seemed sensible. The men urged me to join them and appeared mystified as to my uncertainty. 'I don't know you,' I said. I looked again back down the road, a few people now milling under the street lights, and thought I'd go that way. Immediately, a gate closed across the lane entrance. A third time, I looked back down the road  and now the people were in turmoil: men hurting women, women hurting one another, gangs travelling up the road toward me. Violence, crime and torture. I ran at the gate, it opened and I fled down the lane, calling to others in the lane to run, run. A young girl started screaming and I clapped my hand over her mouth, running with her, anxious that we should escape unheard, unharmed. At the end of the lane, I emerged into a maze of streets, alone but for the three men. Finding my car, I jumped in and the men all helped to push the car into a secure position from which to climb the steep and alarmingly narrow road. I drove up and, upon reaching a huge step, poked my legs through the car floor and stepped up, dragging the car with me. At the top of the hill I looked back to see that the men had driven a different route and I wondered, had I gone the wrong way? I continued on foot, turned into a dark tunnel and climbed up the steep stairs inside. A crowd of people followed, all desperate to go home. At the top of the stairs, the tunnel opened to a lane that ran between tall buildings. I peeked out. Soldiers waited at one end of the lane to my left, and soldiers wearing a different uniform guarded the other end of the lane to my right. We could not go forward and, because the long, long line of people stretched all the way back down through the tunnel, we were unable to retreat. We were trapped. A soldier appeared at the doorway and was about to blow the whistle when he spied someone he knew, someone he once fancied, standing third in line. She, knowing the privileges of being in his favour, stepped outside but asked to bring one other person with her. She chose a young man from the front of the queue. I held two old women who leant against me for support, tears spilling onto my cheeks as I could see no rescue, no escape. There was no future for those of us trapped in the tunnel, the soldier about to uncover us.

missing out

I was inappropriately dressed, wearing only underwear and boots, and aware of it. Although I was in my house, I was in the presence of strangers and I was extremely uncomfortable, although they seemed not to notice. I did my best to conceal my body while searching for something more appropriate, more covering. Even when dressed, I felt uneasy, and I realised that I was home alone with four strange men. I pretended to see someone I knew outside the window and rushed out, running away.
Now, it was Christmas Eve, at about five or six in the early evening. Everyone seemed to be preparing for great festivities. I opened a suitcase and found a few items of clothing that I added to my attire, but, before I could leave, I was asked to help clean up, even though it was not my home. I carefully washed and dried the dishes in the sink, and cleaned the cupboards, finishing the job, long after other people had left. I wondered how best to celebrate and thought I would wander up the hill to a cluster of huge buildings where people seemed to be flocking - perhaps there I would find B. I saw a dear friend at the entrance of one of the auditoriums and, embracing him, he asked me if I could help him in the next auditorium, to open and close the curtains for a show. I hesitated as I wanted to be on my way, but I followed him through the crowd, into the building and backstage, where I helped him for a while. When I was no longer needed, I left and continued on my way, but I could not now find B anywhere.
Next, it was Christmas Day and I was walking up a busy road, on my way to visit a friend. I thought we would go out to celebrate. I was again aware of what I was wearing - this time a black short dress with heavy black boots. I felt quite strong and determined as I walked. Upon arriving at my friend's house, he said he needed to shower and asked me to make him an omelette. I did so, but all the while I felt amiss, as though I was continually waylaid by other people's needs, and distracted from my purpose. Other people were celebrating while I was otherwise occupied.

boat crime

I was with my family on a boat, moored on a river. We were sitting inside the cabin, talking about people who live on boats and why they do. Suddenly, a speed boat shot past us and motored directly into another boat, which was moored only about five hundred metres from us. We watched as the boat reversed and then, purposefully, drove straight into the boat again. A man in his sixties appeared from within the boat and we saw two men on the offending boat, grab him around the throat and strangle him. They turned around and saw us watching and I pointed at them so that they knew that we had seen. I then jumped out of the boat as they would undoubtedly come to get me, as I was witness to their crime. I called out to my family to escape, and I tried to swim under the boat, to hide there under its frame. The men were too fast and, in no time, their boat swung around our boat and I saw them draw their guns. I drew a small pistol and shot one man, first in one shoulder and then in the other, effectively maiming him. The other man released his gun. We called the police and were safe.

friend, noisy men and colour

All fragmented, scattered dreams of late. Difficult to piece together and communicate.

I was outside the house of my late grandmother and grandfather, having walked the streets to get there. It was now dark and I wanted to go in. I found my dear friend, also heading there, and we arrived together. I felt that we were closely bonded, though we hadn't seen each other for some time. His family and some of mine were inside. I noticed a huge painting on the wall, a dark blue and green abstract of a woman, painted in acrylics. I recognised the style as my friend's wife's. I went into number one bedroom to change my clothing, but detoured to another place, another house. There, I was expected to eat dinner and, although I wanted to see the people there too, I was rushing as I knew I was expected back at my grandmother's house before midnight. I understood that I was to meet someone there. The dinner was delicious seafood  in broth. I didn't want to hurry, but I felt urgent. After dinner, I remembered that I needed to change my clothing. I found a suitcase of clothes and rummaged through it, finding a pale pink shift, jeans, a chocolate coat and brown boots. This would do. I changed and started the journey back, but it was nearing twelve and I could not remember how to get there.

Later, I was driving out of an industrial estate. Buildings ringed with scaffolding, men leaning on ladders, machinery roaring. I wanted to be somewhere quiet. I drove along the footpath, as though walking, and waited at the lights. My car diminished, becoming nothing more than a scooter or something similar. The protective walls of the car were gone. A man stood in the middle of a main road, conducting traffic around the roadworks. Car engines, trucks and heavy machinery; all loud. A young man working on the site, came over and leaned on me, his arms around me heavy and blackened with grease. I felt uncomfortable.

Later again, I was at a hairdresser's studio. I was going to have my hair done and I was looking at colour swatches, to choose a shade. Instead of swatches of hair, the colours were displayed in an intricate drawing, each aspect of the drawing a different colour. It was a complicated system as, say, part of a leaf, or a rabbit, might be a different shade of gold, with no label or information to clarify the shade. I was supposed to find a preferred shade among the hundreds, and name it.

horror

I recall very little of the dream, except that I was both watching the goings on as though watching a film and, at times, in it. A grim group of men gathered in a hut in the woods, all big, powerful men, dressed in 'rural' clothing such as flannelette shirts, jeans, strong boots and thick jackets. The men had faced recent and ongoing hardship; they battled one problem after another and it was wearing thin. Their group had dwindled, a man killed, another maimed, another suicided, and they were buckling under the relentless pressure. Finally, the horrors of the last few days or weeks seemed to be over and they were, though now few, poised to leave the hut and go about their lives. I both watched them and was one of them: a man called Todd of great stature, with fair hair and enormous shoulders. The group of remaining men were standing around an old wooden table in the one-roomed hut, and I watched myself as Todd lift my bright blue flannelette shirt over my head, preparing to leave. At that moment, another man, who was chairing the meeting, interrupted the flow of his speech and asked, 'Where's Todd?' I had left my vantage from inside Todd's body and was now only watching the events unfold. Todd, who was still standing on the far side of the table, sighed and pulled his shirt back on, dreading yet another disaster. The sound of chopping wood was heard and the men opened the door and went outside to see what was going on. The view shifted to the source of the chopping sound: Todd was standing aside a tall wooden fence, wielding an axe; he had chopped his own head off. His body was still moving, just as a chicken continues to run after losing its head. His headless body continued to chop, one blow after another, the axe sailing through the air, hacking into the fence.

warning

B and I were living in a house directly opposite the New Farm shopping centre in an old cottage that was in need of structural repair. It was night and we were sitting in the lounge room, watching television. B was waiting for someone to arrive with some important documents, so I was attentive to any sounds of visitors at the front of the house. Someone knocked at the door and I ran through the house, opened the door that divided the lounge room from the entrance, and called out, asking who it was. A male voice answered that he was the secretary and, without checking further, I opened the front door. A man of about fifty, balding with grey hair around the sides of his head and with a grey beard, wearing a dirty white t-shirt, stood at the door with a group of others lurking behind. He said he wanted a cup of coffee. I hesitated as I didn't want to let him in, but another man stepped forward and produced a cheap plastic stanley knife with the blade fully drawn. He threatened me with it and I could think of no way of preventing them from entering. Knowing I had no milk in the house, thinking that just maybe this might deter them, I asked how he liked his coffee and he answered 'black'. They walked forward - the two men and about three other people behind them - backing me through the house. B had heard them coming and was in the kitchen, putting the jug on. She too asked - urgently - how he wanted his coffee and again the man answered 'black'. It was, of course, a ruse to enter the house and I knew that B would be trying to think of a way to protect us. The man wielding the knife had me cornered, and I could do nothing.
I woke briefly and went back to sleep.
I was in a house where many people lived. Again it was an old house in need of repair. While the others were busy with their own business, I ventured out the back of the house and around to the side gate. The afternoon was darkening and I retreated, through the back yard which stretched out into the vacant block next door, with no fence to divide the two properties. On the vacant block I could see a woman who I knew was with the group that had entered our house in the dream earlier. I knew too that it had been a dream and now I recalled it like a warning. I hurried to the back door, but was cut off by the same man from the previous dream who had threatened me with the knife. Again he held a cheap plastic stanley knife with the blade fully drawn and he toyed with it, placing it to my throat and pretending to slash the skin on my arms. Again he wanted to come in.
The dream skipped forward and I was inside the house, safe from harm, but quite upset. I found two friends who were also living in the house. They were both friends from my school days and I knew they knew me well. I need to tell them about the experience. I explained the first dream as though it had been a harbinger, and then told them, in great detail, about the second occurrence.I felt that had I listened to the message of the first dream, that I wouldn't have been faced with the danger twice.