Dreamside Read online

  "I probably will after a while."

  "The group," said Ella to Lee, "would never recover."

  She produced her purse to buy another drink. Lee offered twice, but she insisted that she buy her own. While she was away at the bar Brad said, "Listen mate; she's making you dance."

  "What?"

  "Dance! Dance! She's a vixen."

  "A vixen? I don't know about that, but she's got you taped."

  "Not a chance! Anyway it's not my tongue that's hanging out drooling: you're making an indecent public display of yourself."

  "What?"

  Brad got up to go. "I'll leave you to it." He patted Lee on the face. "Dirty."

  Ella returned. "Your friend's gone, then?"

  "I only met him tonight. He's not a friend."

  "He's a reptile. He's got the eyes of a lizard and scales on the inside of his mouth." She crossed her legs.

  "I see."

  But Ella obviously didn't think of Lee as a reptile, otherwise she wouldn't have taken him back to the house she shared with two other girls about a mile from the university. Lee, for his part, overes­timated Ella's style. Once they were behind closed doors he half-expected, wished, hoped that Ella would tear off her erotic black outfit and demand that they make urgent love (beret remaining in place). To say that Lee was more relieved than disappointed when she didn't would be a lie. He was a knot of tension and in Ella's pres­ence his mouth ran dry. Although he was not a complete stranger to the private rooms of the women students, something about Ella's aura—a subtle scent and a kind of leading signal beyond the range and faculty of human definition—intimidated him while at the same time snaring him in a noose of sexual longing.

  Ella at twenty was busy cultivating an air which, ten years later, she would be earnestly trying to throw off—that of the jaded adven­turess, physically satiated, spiritually exhausted. This blasé image had, as was intended, a contradictory energizing effect on Lee. When he breathed in a single hot draft of this distillation of ele­ments, it worked on him like a witch's potion. He perched nervously on the corner of her bed nursing a chipped mug of chicory-flavoured coffee as she relaxed back into a comfortable armchair, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

  Ella's room was a revelation. Those of other female students had always been pale stereotypes of pastel shades, feminine pillow­slips and obligatory postcard collections. Entering Ella's room was like walking into a subdued decorated cave or a Bedouin tent. The four walls were draped with hanging fabrics, Indian batiks, Serbian rugs, Greek blankets, Russian scarves, antique lace cloths—a hang­ing exhibition of textures, a treasury of intricate folds. Slow-burning incense breathed seductive fumes from elaborate brass cups. Ella relaxed in her armchair, rolling herself another liquorice-paper cig­arette as she spoke. In Lee's mind she had already fused the mystical qualities of the Tarot Priestess, a 1970s Sibyl, and a contemporary Circe into one exotic being, and had focused them all into a soft dark triangle at the top of her legs.

  "I don't do drugs any more; it's a waste of spiritual energy," she was saying. She seemed to be deliberately parodying herself.

  "I've come to the same conclusion," said Lee, who had never so much as abused the instructions on an aspirin bottle.

  "I'm in and out of TM at the moment.. ." she continued.

  "TM?"

  "Transcendental Meditation."

  "Right."

  "Only just recently I got my head into TA . . ."

  "TA?"

  "Transactional Analysis."

  "Right."

  "Where've you been living?" asked Ella.

  "I've been into TP."

  Ella looked foggy. "TP?"

  "Teaching Practice. TP. It's a joke."

  "A joke," said Ella. "Right." She looked at her watch and glanced at the door.

  "You're quite a spiritual entity," Lee tried. It was obviously the right thing to say. Ella brightened, or perhaps her aura expanded, but anyway she proceeded to map out the dizzying geography of her psychic development over the past twelve months. In a matter of minutes she alluded to astrological configurations and Zen Buddhism; the Tibetan Book of the Dead and Hexagrams of the I Ching; Tantric Lore and Cabbalistic Law; primal screams and astral projec­tion; rebirth experiences and regression into former lives.

  Lee thought he might be talking to a Martian.

  "In the end you're just chasing your tail," said Ella. Lee nodded in sage concurrence. "Which is why I'm interested in this dream thing. I want to leave all that clutter behind, trust in my own resources. I want to get inside my own head."

  I just want to get inside your pants, Lee thought. "Exactly why I'm interested," he said.

  Coffee had gone cold in the bottom of cups, incense had burned itself out. Ella was silent for the first time since they had walked through the door. Lee tried to keep the conversation on the boil by casually declaring that he was thinking of dropping out of univer­sity so that he could travel overland to Tibet.

  "Do it," she said simply. It was the second time she had used the phrase that evening. There was something dismissive about the way she said it which twisted the knot in which she already had him tied.

  Lee sat squirming on the corner of the bed, trying to think up a way of making the next move when she suddenly said, "Now I'd like to go to bed."

  Lee stared at her, dumbfounded. Was that an invitation or what? He made an assessment of Ella's breezy self-confidence. "OK," he said, and started to untie his shoelaces.

  Ella watched as he kicked off his shoes. Then she spoke.

  "What the hell are you doing?" For a moment she looked flus­tered and a little wide-eyed: an apprentice Sibyl lost for words, a novice Circe frightened by a piglet.

  "You don't want me to stay?" asked Lee.

  "If ever I do," she said, recovering slightly, "you'll be the first to hear of it."

  Lee pulled his shoes back on, trying to model a win-some-lose-some look as Ella opened the door. At the last minute she tore a book from the shelf and thrust it into his hands, simultaneously pro­pelling him forward. "You really must read this and let me know what you think of it OK goodnight." She closed the door just a little too hurriedly behind him.

  Lee took a short cut across the university lawns, philosophical. The book Ella had given him must have been a way of saying that the door would be open another time. He was half-way home before he looked at it. It was a battered paperback copy of Alice in Wonder­land. The university clock-tower rang out the hour in the distance. It was 2 a.m.

  THREE

  Why, sometimes I've believed as many as

  six impossible things before breakfast

  —Lewis Carroll

  The silence was embarrassing. The second meeting of the lucid dreamers had convened in Professor Burns's own lounge in a large house close to the university and across the road from a sprawling Victorian graveyard. They had turned up at staggered intervals, and after being warmly greeted by the professor were seated in one of the assorted armchairs drawn into a circle. Lee arrived late and suffered agonies on seeing Brad Cousins ensconced on a small, cosy-looking sofa with Ella Innes. Lee took a seat next to the shy Irish girl.

  "Had any premonitions?" she whispered as soon as he sat down.

  "Not one."

  At last the group became aware that the professor was patiently awaiting their silence so that a start could be made. The whispering diminished in tiers until they were left gazing upon Burns, waiting for session number two to begin. But he didn't speak.

  The professor remained with his gaze fixed steadily three feet above the head of a girl immediately opposite him. His face carried a perfectly neutral expression, neither hostile nor friendly, neither impatient nor uninterested. Fidgeting began and increased as the period of silence extended. A sigh, a scratch, a cough, the sound of someone twisting in their seat all punctured the embarrassing hiatus before it was immediately sealed up again with silence. After an agonizing five minutes of nothing, Brad Cousins spoke.

&nbs
p; "If this is a psychological exercise designed to make us all feel uncomfortable, its working."

  All eyes were turned on the professor, who did nothing to acknowledge the remark or deal with the implicit criticism. His expression remained consistent, as did his gaze. The group, exas­perated, plunged into a silence more oppressive than the last. The silence seemed to expand, becoming more profound as it length­ened. Lee looked at Ella; Ella looked at Lee. Brad looked at Ella and Lee; Lee looked at Brad. The Irish girl looked at Lee; Lee looked at the Irish girl, Brad and Ella. Ella looked at Brad, Lee and the Irish girl. Now no one seemed to want to look at the pro­fessor at all, except sideways.

  "If nothing's happening," Brad tried again, "maybe we should all go away and come back next week." His words fell like the sound of a small pebble tossed into a vast reservoir. Now everyone, with the exception of the professor, affected to be fascinated with their fingernails or their footwear.

  At last, but not before the agonized hush had become a rack upon which everyone lay stretched, the professor spoke. "It might or might not be," he intoned, "that in fact a great deal more is hap­pening in this group than if we were to pretend otherwise by speak­ing." A few there nodded heads in counterfeit sagacity; others looked around wildly for help. The pressure of the silence was redoubled.

  He looked gently at the Irish girl sitting beside Lee. "Honora is it? Did you dream, Honora?"

  "I did dream," said Honora, "and I was aware that I was dreaming."

  "So you are now a card-carrying lucid dreamer. Did you keep a diary?"

  "I did." Honora produced an open black ring-binder in which Lee could see large copperplate handwriting interspersed with fibre colour or lead pencil drawings. "I also made a few sketches of. . . sit­uations . . . if you can call them that."

  L. P. Burns was impressed and said so. He proceeded around the room, pressing everyone on the subject of diaries, which appeared to be more important to him than the cargo of dreams they carried. Lee claimed to have forgotten to bring his

  ."Forgot?"

  "I didn't realize we would be needing them tonight," he said lamely.

  "Even with your special foresight?" said the professor.

  "Sorry?"

  "Never mind. Next." He made the word sound like a bell.

  Brad Cousins declared with a proud swagger that he hadn't had a single dream since the last meeting of the group, not even the night he got roaring drunk.

  "Perhaps you're blocking, so that you can't remember.

  "I don't think so; I don't want to miss the fun."

  "But your largely unconscious reasons for blocking," said the professor, "might not find the dreams all that amusing."

  "Possible."

  "More than possible; believe it." The professor fixed his eye on him until Brad was forced to look away.

  Another student digressed on her history of migraine and treated the company to a dismal saga concerning repeated visits to the health centre, including names, dates and times of day, in order to obtain prescriptions for sleeping pills of different varieties all of which failed in turn to produce the desired remedy. Burns listened patiently before moving on to Ella. Where the last speaker had numbed the group, Ella startled them into life again by bravely declaring that all of her dreams had been of an exotically sexual nature and that her self-awareness during the dreams had been acute.

  "Funky!" yelled Brad Cousins, cutting Ella short.

  "I'm not entirely sure whether Brother Cousins intends to encourage you or discourage you with that last shouted remark," said the professor, "but we might all feel relieved to remember that our interests are more concerned with levels of awareness than with precise anatomical descriptions."

  A stifled giggle did the circuit before Ella protested, "It's just that I can be choosy about who I do it with!"

  "Whom!" yelled Brad, trying in vain to whip up a group guf­faw. "Whom you do it with!"

  The professor leaned in towards Ella, and so did the rest of the group. "Can you genuinely control who takes part in your dream . . . encounters?" he asked.

  "Sometimes; not always. Faces slip and change; it can be an effort to keep things fixed."

  "Sounds like it's an orgy!" Brad Cousins being helpful again.

  Burns held up an admonitory hand to Brad as he pressed Ella further. "You are actually conscious of an effort, a struggle to direct the dream along a course predetermined by yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "Struggling against what, exactly?"

  "Well; against the natural flow of the dream."

  "So you could make the choice to sit back as it were, and experi­ence a different dream over which you would have no influence?"

  "Yes."

  Silence, as the group watched the professor turning over the possibilities of Ella's revelations. They waited for the nugget of his profound deliberations. "Sounds like pretty sophisticated stuff," he said.

  Ella flushed her humility, uneasy at being rocketed to the top of the class. At the end of their discussions the professor set an exercise.

  "Homework," said Brad.

  "Yes, Brother Cousins," said Burns, "dreamwork. Continue to keep a meticulous record in your diaries. But now I have some exer­cises for you which may or may not lubricate the passage through to lucidity, by which of course I mean they may facilitate lucid dream­ing; you too Ella, notwithstanding your superior control.

  "Exercise one: ask yourself several times through the course of your day whether or not you are dreaming. I am sure that many stu­dents in this university if confronted with the same question would have difficulty in replying within a time period briefer than fifteen minutes, but I have nothing but faith in all of you here. Is it a matter of some amusement Messrs Cousins and Peterson? Good; be amused, but do it. And the second part of that exercise is, having persuaded yourself that you are not after all dreaming, to go on to tell yourself that you want to recognize and be aware of the fact that you are dreaming the next time a dream occurs. Clear?"

  "Can I ask myself," said Brad, "if I am dreaming that you are really saying this to us?"

  "Very witty, Brother Cousins, well done. Of course I don't mind where you ask it so long as you complete the exercise as I have described. The principle is quite simply that of leaving your uncon­scious mind so many messages and memos that it will eventually have to act on them.

  "Exercise two: next time you wake up from a dream, try to imagine yourself going straight back into that dream. And when you are back in there, at least in your imagination, instruct yourself that the next time you dream you want to be aware of the fact. Tell yourself that you want to recognize that you are dreaming. Thus in approximating the dream state you are making your intentions very clear. More memos to yourself. That's all. As I said, keep a record of all of this and indeed of your ordinary dreams."

  "What if you're not having any dreams?" asked Brad.

  "Correction: what if you're not remembering any of your dreams. You need to know that if you're not remembering your dreams when you wake up, it is probably because you don't want to remember them. For some reason you are blocking the recall of those dreams. I don't know why you would be doing this; you must ask yourself. It may be because something in the dream frightened you and you don't want to remember it. Perhaps the dream contains a message asking you to change something about yourself that you don't want to change. Or you may be terrified of being in an envi­ronment where you are not in control of what is happening. Or per­haps you are just preoccupied with too many other things. I don't know. If this is happening to you, ask yourself why."

  "Very helpful," Brad whispered to Ella.

  "I'm sorry if I can't work this out for you. What I will say is that you will recall your dreams not through an act of willpower, but more by letting go. That is why I said that all you can do is leave mes­sages around the place for yourself. Does that make sense?" Brad screwed up his face. "No? Something for you to think on. Mean­while keep your diary by your bedside, and on w
aking scribble the first things that come to your head. This might give you some access to dream material. Try waking up after sleeping for a multiple of one and a half hours, which is the normal time between dreams. In other words if you go to sleep at midnight, wake at seven-thirty, not at eight o'clock; or in Brother Cousins's case at nine or at ten-thirty or whatever part of the day you can manage. Finally, last time I told you to set your alarm clocks to wake you up, but I want you to begin to train yourself to wake up without the intrusion of an alarm. This is because it causes a radical change of consciousness which I want you to avoid. You must learn to surface with your dream. Any questions?"

  There were none.

  The post-session analysis took place in the nearest bar. Lee, Ella and Brad had been joined by the Irish girl, Honora, and two other mem­bers of the group. Brad was complaining loudly.

  "He's just taking the piss out of us. Seems to me that he's got us there under the pretext of doing something about this dreaming crap, while he's really using it for some other kind of study which will no doubt distinguish his own academic career and make mon­keys out of us."

  "He puts you in your place at any rate." Ella, with her head down constructing another of her liquorice-paper snouts.

  "We wouldn't expect complaints from the prima donna."

  "But we would," light, puff, puff, "expect them to come," puff, "from the clown prince."

  "Never mind Ella's pornographic fairy-tales," said Brad, "what was all that crap at the start of the evening?"

  "Perhaps he was just trying to create an intense atmosphere," said Honora.

  "To make the dream stuff seem more real," Ella agreed.

  "That's probably it, Brother Cousins," said Lee, raising a laugh.

  "You'll agree with anything she says if it'll help you get into her pants," said Brad. Lee groped for the laser riposte, but it wasn't there.

  "Looks like we've found our lowest common denominator," said Ella.

  "Lowest what? You were the one who turned the discussion into a blue movie."

  "You have to be honest if you're talking about dreams," Honora said angrily. "You shouldn't abuse people's honesty by taking advan­tage of what they say in the sessions."