book:one
book of dreams [ fragments of an impression ]
The end of day is marked with a dream. Whoever you are, if you are walking these streets, each turn of your day is marked by a spotting of sleep. Whether remembered or forgotten, the dream is a recollection of fragments of both conscious and subconscious impressions in a day (or two), awkwardly stitched into the dreamer’s own psychical act.
A rather confusing watch, however the quality of this watch determines the quality of sleep (and vice versa) Could every fragment of impressions in each turn of the clock hand be manipulated to create the perfect night’s sleep? Could architecture fulfil the wishes and desires only apparent in one’s unconscious, to create a reality just like a perfect night’s sleep?
The dream is the guardian of sleep, not its disturber
5:28am …ring…ring On the third snooze the room falls silent, as a man rises from the sheets. Naked from the waist up, bedside lamp light glimmers off his backside, moist with sweat. Must have tossed and turned through the entire night – a bad dream, perhaps?
7:48am The rise of the sun is a mere sign of time, its warmth doesn’t penetrate onto these streets. Countless heads are spewed out of vehicles - tagging beeps replacing the ‘thankyou’s’, sounds from wires replacing the sounds from anything but. Half an hour in the bus is taken for granted whilst an extra two minutes waiting for a coffee is worth an urgent hesitation. Crisp white shirt, black blazer neatly folded and hanging off his left arm, he steps off his bus. Following himself from yesterday (and every other yesterdays), he walks. He does not speak. He does not meet eye with anyone else. He walks. His bus departs. It roars. He does not speak. The road carries every other arrival and departure. The road roars. No one speaks.
5:09pm The odd time of day when the moon and the sun co-exists in one sky. He descends with a couple others from his level. Level 18. They are washed away in a river of stiff shirts, past the expressionless mall and onto the main street. This river probably flows just twice a day.
This day he will enjoy a drink. He hasn’t in a while. This day they will go to that bar, just like the other day. Body perched on a metal stool, a Becks in his right hand, his phone in the other, he listens to stories of other people’s lives. They say that other guy bought a house this January? He takes a sip. His beer is nice and cold. $11. Oh, he needs to pay his rent. Should he look into getting a house? Should he get a car? Today’s bus ride was exceptionally awful. He should start going to the gym again, flu from last winter was terrible. 1:13am Wrapped up in bed. His head is blurred but he cannot sleep. He must be thinking about the silhouette he traced at the bar earlier today. An off white chiffon blouse, with a dusty rose flare skirt. Burgundy mary-jane flats. Hadn’t seen her before. A student maybe? Who is he kidding, he was filthy from the day’s sweat, scent-less and humour-less. Oh he needs to pay his rent. Should he look into getting a house? Should he get a….
3:53am
Stuck in a river of white. Struggling to escape He gulps a body of the river. Tasteless. Scentless. Bland Suddenly he is observing from above the river. he notices his reflection in the water. Naked. He attempts to escape, his movement painfully slow. From a distance, An expression-less man, circling A date-less calendar
act two : student on temporary visa
4:19pm Birds gather around two pairs of feet by the muffin shop. One had stood up to shake off the crumbs from her lap, then soon sat back down. She holds in her hands, agitated hands, a bright orange bag of fragrant tisanes, a black paper bag of spicy bath bombs and a small maroon tote filled with cash that will become mere souvenirs tomorrow. For a last day in a city, her hands feel empty. Time melts from her hands, dripping into puddles of lukewarm discontent. Does everyone else know where to go?
Now at the folding edge of a city, she follows cameras, luggage and backpacks into a mall. No store calls after her, nor demands her attention. Faces devoid of expression, spoken by generically coded machines. Mr Honey and Mrs Merino, meet their neighbour, Mrs DollarStore. She doesn’t need to shake hands with a face she’s met before. She walks, frantically searching for the exclamation mark to end her sentence of this city. She walked in expecting a street, but it was just a round-about.
7:22pm The sun just began to sink, but not a single store is open at this hour at this block. Possessing no momentum of her own, she is pulled away from the scentless block and toward the busier fragment of Downtown. 7:38pm She orders a prosciutto pizza and a bowl of marinated olives to share. A fork slips from her hands. It’s been 5 months, maybe 6, but her hands are already drenched from the idea of ordering in English. She feels a stare, from a man amongst men on bar stools. Come to think of it, she hasn’t made a single friend outside of her language school. Should she smile? What if he comes and talks to her? What would they talk about? Would they have anything to talk about? She turns her head quickly. She can’t think of anything to talk about anyway.
2:41am
A full stop. Bold, black dot Without shadow Attempting to spin away Rotating, An unperceivable rotation. It aggregates Into rows and columns of Endless dots Endlessly rotating With its centre In its centre
act three : tourist from denmark
10:15am At the very last stop of the bus, the door slides open and a lanky young man steps off. Khaki bucket hat, black traveller’s backpack spanning from the back of his head to his hip, a phone in his hand and a sturdy pair of sneakers. The flicker in his eyes are hidden by his rather grubby skin and ungroomed beard. Nothing about him stands out, just an ordinary backpacker. He has a quick scan and hurries to what apparently is named a square. Odd, the silence here is many degrees heavier than the street. The only interaction is between a couple, sitting outside a cafe. Otherwise there sits a man in a Courier uniform eating a sandwich on a bench, surrounded by sparrows and seagulls and pigeons. And walks past a petite girl in a flowery dress carrying a vase of flowers into the mall- oh, a water fountain with a flame flickering above the water. A square without people, a fire above water. How ironic.
He looks up and traces the sky. It’s beautifully framed between two older looking buildings. Quite grand. It’s nice. This city seems ..quite nice. He pats his stomach and firmly bites his lips. Across the street is a hot dog stall. He slowly re-places his bag straps on his shoulders and heads toward the road. Bus after bus after bus after bus, he cannot find the right time to jump in. That flower girl came right across this street.. How? 10:59am He is still at his table at the hotdog stall, with a crumpled serviette and a bowl of fries virtually untouched. It is his second batch, an excuse to keep him parked for another few minutes. His friend should be here any minute. Any minute now.
He decides to wander into one of the two nicer buildings. A ferry terminal, it seems. An impressive display of brochures waves its hands in the breeze. The breeze is nice. The sky is nice. The water is nice. He regrets he spent half an hour at the hotdog stall, staring out into just a bland building. He could have been sitting here with the breeze and the sky and the water. He should have wandered here the moment he got off the bus. 11:22am He waves, and another man mirrors him in the distance. Two ferry tickets peek out from a pocket of his trousers. They will be travelling across the nice water, under the nice sky. 11:51am His head slowly falls on his backpack, placed in the seat next to him. A quick doze, whilst the sun is nicely blanketing the side of his face and neck.
Opening a book For the very first time Beautiful cover, Wonderfully old-fashioned First chapter placed on the thirteenth page With no sense Missing vowels Missing commas Discomfort Then on the second chapter Neat Sunny Witty Leaving a corner fold On the second chapter Forgetting the first