A dreaming composed of four spatial units.

political allegory/personal relationships

Beep. Beep. Beep. I am in The Shop and various items are tumbling into my rucksack as usual. It is bright and light, of course, like all supermarkets must be, but all conversational noise seems subdued, muffling my senses into complete isolation, and yet that terrible, piercing BEEP continues to call out urgently. I arrive at the self-checkout, scan some things. A white mechanism catches my eye. It is a tin opener. When I leave with my shopping I am holding it, not having taken it as an item of use or beauty, but because I strongly suspect it to be mine, recognising and retrieving by instinct. An assistant clad in purple uniform sees me clutching the tin opener as she smokes a cigarette outside and comes over to question me. 

“Can I see your receipt please? You appear to be clutching one of our tin openers. It’s in your hand, not in a bag. You look guilty.’

I hand over the receipt.

“OK. I see. I have to go and process this in our store. Please wait here.”

She goes inside, cigarette hastily discarded, entering via the “EXIT” door whence I had sprung with my improbable treasure, eyes wide and apparently not-so-innocent. Her back turned, I set off running. The pile of stolen goods hiding inside my rucksack gains in weight with each stride until the paving stones beneath my feet are noticeably distorted by the pressure. No longer able to move with any elegance, I lumber, stumbling sideways. 

What seemed like slow progress, however, has brought me to the outskirts of the town. Small suburban streets of dull little bungalows and a hollow, airy silence, save the odd car, are all there is to see. And yet to forget my fearful haste would be mad! The Shop can be found everywhere. There is no rural idyll it hasn’t penetrated and raped in some form or another, even if all that remains of a store is an empty, dilapidated stone box, and nor would that be the cause for any triumph, since the purple-clad nation still wander the streets, ‘protectors’ of society who have remained alert to the clandestine activity of individuals like myself. 

A misty drizzle descends slowly, with such half-heartedness that it can barely be described as falling, and I, hot and out of breath, am clumsy and increasingly heavy in this bizarre, ugly serenity. At a turn off, from avenue to B road, I spy my brother, M. Oh, the relief! I can unload my burden to him: he will help me, and then I can run, run, run. Run like the wind all the way home. 

He is not alone, however. He is chatting with C, my father’s ex-partner who has got out of her car but appears distracted by the ground. Now M is looking at the ground too. My run already slowed to a walk, I halt completely and address them, but they cannot hear me. They are completely absorbed, eyes cast downwards, walking back and forth around the front of the car, then on their knees examining the ground close-up, noses inches from the tarmac. Under the car. In the grate. 

“C has lost her ring, Beck”, M informs me. Looking to the ground myself, I realise it is full of rings, earrings, bangles. They must have been pressed into the concrete while it was still wet, thus turning the entire turning-point, from one side of the road to the other, into a mosaique of silver in a sea of dark, rough grey. Some of the jewellery is old and scratched and mangled - some looks recently added, recently dropped, but nevertheless immersed in the piece, which is solid and whole.

I doubt that the turning-point of silver jewels will yield up what poor C is looking for. So numerous are the objects among which they patiently search, so attached they appear to the earth into which they have melted, that another silver ring is just another item of luxury crowded out by thousands more who have met the same stone cold fate.

Convincing M to abandon his assistance to C’s quest in favour of mine takes little time. I think he recognises the urgency in my expression, that I need him in the here and now. A timeless search effected on M’s part more out of sympathy and love than in the belief that his efforts would be fruitful is now left behind with the misty avenue as I pull M by the arm. I take off my rucksack, offer it with pleading eyes. He takes it, nods and sets off at a decent pace, but unrushed and calm. I know that he will be safe, because he has committed no crime, whereas I must continue to flee, running down streets which gradually produce greater and greater pillars, balconies, stores belonging to The Shop - but at least now I am lighter. I can run. I have emerged from that misty silence, that mid-point of nothingness between two towns, and here I am again, amongst bustling, talking, vile people. How unaware they are that their beloved stores are currently pursuing, with combined effort, this utterly ridiculous, red-faced child. I dodge them like bullets.

Phone rings, announcing that “AB” is calling. I answer.

“Yes?!”

“No!” I hear, then laughter. 

I’m telling him about what happened outside The Shop, although by now the separation of towns and my time between urban environments are no longer distinct phases, but a merged experience contained within the boundaries AB and I share, of one place. I am aware of this, but acknowledge there is little point in recounting unnecessary details, since The Shop exists in both towns in exactly the same format. I tell AB that I’m scared and breathless. He tells me to hurry back, that it will all be fine. 

I’m there now, back at our building. Through the main doors I go and I’m underground. This cavernous, earthy construction in the centre of the town is where I live with AB, D and A. Between me and them there are now only the usual check-points to be passed, where purple-clad men check cards, smile, greet and nod day and night, day and night. Purple! As I walk from check-point number one towards check-point number two I am struck by the realisation that our cordial, caring checkers are the same bunch of people who labour in The Shop. What a strange bunch. They must perform both activities simultaneously, since no checker ever leaves his station in our underground home, and no labourer belonging to The Shop ever ceases his tired functions. Between the dimly lit stomachs of institutional checkpoints and the bright light, pretentious chatter and continuous swell of human movement of the stores, the purple people exist in two parts, doubled for convenience. Now I see and now I fear. The second checkpoint I have passed already; onto the third and final one I go. Here there is only one purple-clad man, rather than two. He is aware and watching carefully, scrutinising my face, manner and mien, of which I am unbearably conscious as I approach. He says something in German, and then, seeing that I do not understand, points to my hand. I am holding a tub of margarine. 

“You’ll have to pay for that here. It belongs to The Shop until you have paid for it.”

“Here?” I say, incredulous. He points to a cash register on his desk which has a sticky label on it announcing ‘Check-in / Check-out’. So the double functions of the purple nation are equalled by their doubly functional machines. Of course, I have no money, and so nervously I assure the German checker that I will be back with what I owe for the tub of margarine as soon as I have retrieved my purse from my room. 

“Very well.” He turns away, letting me go, and then I see him write something on a piece of paper. He is adding to a list and it is very long. 

I’m on another floor of the underground building now, home at last, but by no means consoled. The walls of this place suffocate; they drown their inhabitants in the muddy ground from which they were rendered, making all life dark and vole-like. Lack of air means my still-breathless state goes unrelieved - I am still tense, on edge, exhausted. I reach the chamber-cave I share with AB, D and A, which is spacious, warm and dark, and feels strangely like a breath of air when I open the door and walk in. Explanations and words clarify my thoughts. They know about the disaster outside The Shop and are clearly aware of the danger I face, but they cannot dispel my anxiety or even assure me of unquestioning belief in my postulations...no, in actual fact, they cannot believe that it would all be so organised and so profoundly immoral. Realisations are expanded upon in my mind, instantly, as though inspirited by their conservative antithesis, and perhaps they were. This is my antidote, my reaction, and I lurch from thread to theory, hypothesising on the nature of my bitter end. 

“... so can you not see? I will become a purple-clad slave, of the lowest order, not even permitted to breath above ground. Locked in I shall be, another dark cavern my home, but permanent, inescapable. They will have me stirring great vats of orange liquid in a clanking, steely, coal dust-smothered room at the core of the earth, for purple control has even torn through crust and mantle! That insipid, viscous fluid will then be poured into jars labelled ‘curry sauce’ and sold to people as a substance which nourishes, while really it is a terrible poison...”

At this point I am transported from the dissolving cavern-chamber and their listening faces - the disbelieving glances between AB and A; the understanding but highly doubtful look shining through D’s expression - to the labour cavern I have just described. 

I stir the orange liquid with a long wooden spoon. It is an orange so garish it blares into my soul and I am lost momentarily in the thoughtless monotony of slow, purposeful stirring, staring deep into that enormous pan abundant with venomous sludge; so deep, in fact, that I am startled to witness, several moments after apparent absorption in my task, the surface which faces me and the reflections therein... AB, D and A continue to discuss and debate in that surface, mindless heaviness having freed me from my breathless state but also, horrifically, from my understanding of where I had been and who I was before this life of orange and black and wooden spoons. Staring now at the ceiling of the cavern I absorb myself, suddenly gaining awareness of the power I have to move between physically unconnected places. They continue with their huddled conversation amongst the ripples of orange down below, while I breathe in, close my eyes and am soaked up, up, up from the centre of the earth and back into the chamber-cavern of our room. I sit there and consider the possibilities of this manoeuvre in silent excitement. AB, D and A see nothing. I am on the other side of the room, balled and bound up in my own limbs, rocking a little, partly from the anxious terror which has thus returned but, equally, in a kind of corporeal enactment of the energy I must renew in my mind if I am to escape the wrath of The Shop. 

“Am I dreaming?” I ask aloud. No, I conclude. I seem to remember that this is a thought that passed through my mind at some other point during these recent events - though I cannot say when - and which was subsequently dismissed as folly and desperately wishful thinking, since I felt without a shred of doubt the physical consequences of running so fast with so heavy a load. I had been out of breath, utterly exhausted, the rucksack of increasing weight had given me back pain, and all these things I can still feel, residing somewhere in my body and now slipping slowly away. But not gone. A reminder of danger and reality. What has become apparent is that, startlingly real as the situation may be, the ability to dissolve one environment in favour of another lies within me. I disconnect, eternally anonymous: I am not real enough to have to remain in one place, even if I am real enough to be pursued by the purple nation. Control of environments, or even approximate timing of transportation for that matter, is not absurd, I think. I want, I feel, I hope; concentrating, eyes closed...

Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I am wondering vaguely why I consented to this, and in full knowledge of what I’d find too! I must be mad. Or perhaps they offered me a pay cheque I couldn’t refuse and I reasoned with myself, with my mother and father, and here I am again. One thing has changed though. JM appears to have acquired a son since last time; an eleven year old boy with a curiously English appearance, from his fat, white sluggishness to the northern, council estate dress sense. I keep expecting him to speak to me in a broad regional accent, but it turns out that his English is very poor. He and JM are stood near the top of the staircase talking to me, but it is hard to listen to such awkwardly-pronounced, broken English. Concentrate, Rebecca. I am being lightly reprimanded for the untidiness of my room, I discover - clothes scattered all over the place and I’ve only been here a week! I do not contest the accusation, but the atmosphere, stifling as ever, pushes me away and I wander into the living room, where I am instantly jumped upon, kissed, pinned to the sofa. The girls’ English has got better. They can’t stop smiling; they tell me they love me and they’re so happy I’m back. Shouts and squeals of pleasure bounce around the room. JM comes in and informs me that this irrational, girlish, squawking behaviour seems to have become a constant in his household since my return, and I am still struggling to know, trying to think, how did I get here? I don’t recall any arrival. 

Now I’m in my room, upstairs. JM is right, it is messy; I’ve covered the place in clothes, but they’re not all mine. There are two beds in this very large, very beautiful chamber with a high ceiling which reminds me of a place from childhood (the home of a family friend, I think) - beside one of which I spy my sister, S. Oh, S! I am not alone at all; I am surrounded by so many gestures towards my life in England, almost certainly provided by my ‘second family’ in order to cushion and lure me into staying here for a considerable, if not unending, period of time. 

S is kneeling on the floor fumbling with pieces of coloured paper. Elaborate paper shapes are lying half-constructed in each half of the room, covering all the floor space left unoccupied by mine and S’s clothes. They are flowers, each petal an intricate collage of innumerable colours, soft and frail like tissues, overlapping in infinite circles. Perhaps these works are mine and S’s escape from all the family, noise, activity and inquisitiveness to be found just a floor below. S is writing now, and then I see that a large, curvaceous script is slowly filling up each of her petals, following the circular growth of the flower itself, which seems to have been growing in volume and literary content in that order and with a near-simultaneity. S is composing poetry. 

I walk over to read it. She still hasn’t looked up; intent as she clearly is on producing a work of immense beauty and precision. The poem is about a purple flower, and this now discovered I need read no more, as I know the rest, for it is a poem that I too have added to my flower, a poem lifted straight from the works of a Japanese poet! I gasp, hand to mouth, terrified by our equal ability to plagiarise, and yet I must have known the criminal value of my seemingly creative activity at the moment of bringing together the effort, the care, the visual beauty of my flower with the masterful work of someone else. I leave S writing up the stolen poem and cross the room to consult my own flower. It is not the same as her flower - there are some distinctions to be made. Mine does not outwardly display any poetry at all, instead having been built up and layered expertly into folds which each contain yet another carefully folded piece of paper in the shape of a triangle. Each one opens to reveal a poem I have read and loved and learnt; each one a pocket of guilt and horror pleading acceptance, offering desperate justification, with that neat primness and conscientious labouring gone into an essentially meaningless, colourful swathe of immaculate origami.  

My heart beat has become almost shrill, so insistent it is on the feeling of anxiety which courses through me as I stand and stare first at my work, then back at S’s, then back again at my own. Two flowers; different, yet the same; peaceful, yet terror-inducing. I want to wrap S in my arms, but the ceiling is high and S looks small and lovely, concentrated and deft of finger, in such a way that I cannot bear to crush her. My sister and our flowers suddenly seem out of reach to me, sewn into a single, frail being. My clumsy lips remain unopened, arms by my sides, limp and useless as I leave the room, walk down the stairs. 

Thud, thud, thud. Footsteps on the stairs. My heart in my body. I feel as though I’ve been running!  But I’ve been running for so long haven’t I...? Ah, yes. This is why I’m here. I escaped and I hadn’t even realised it. Thank god. Presumably this means I don’t have to stay here long at all, that I can escape from here too. 

J is cooking, always cooking. I am sitting, idle. She talks:

“Te habrían tenido como criada en otra familia, Rebeca… una criada… ¿sabes qué te digo? Hemos caído en la suerte, ¿ah que sí? ¿Te das cuenta ya que somos buena gente?”

I nod serenely, barely listening. I’ve heard this before, oh-so-many times. I leave, walk back into the hallway and close my eyes. I can’t stay here, because I’ve already lived this. Perhaps this place is a haven, protecting me from the purple nation. I feel, gratefully, that I’m now further out of reach.  

AB, D and A are still talking. I never left anywhere. They’re talking to me and I’m responding. The second trip to Mallorca proved that I am at least partly dreaming, because physical sensation need not have anything to do with whether something is real or not, and because the parallel excursions of an individual only exist within oneiric thought - which evidently doesn’t make them impossible, but certainly limited. 

“I’m going now” I say. 

“One more thing, Rebecca. You can still steal from The Shop,” D says. “But promise me you’ll get a rucksack which doesn’t increase in weight at unexpected and inconvenient moments. It’s simply illogical to use that thing again.”

I shudder. I shake my head. Under no circumstances...

Then I’m gone. I’m not sure where, but I know with whom. A gnarled tree, wide and wiry with age, supports me, and in another branch a little further up I can see I. We’re lying in the arms of a wise old man, contemplating a cloudless sky through magnificent foliage, though the ground beneath is dry grass and red dust. He cradles us in his arms and I feel a gentle love diffuse through me, flowing in two directions: up through roots, trunk, bark into my body, and smiling down from above, in the form of the beautiful I, bouncing over leaves to sink into sun-warmed skin. There are leaves on the ground too, crisp on the African plain which is truly devoid of any life but ours. I’m telling I where I’ve been recently and now I’m thinking, You’re like a Leaf...

I am too. We’re Leaves in a Tree, I. I’ve been running all night and now I can sit and talk to You in the safety of this Tree.