Computer Generated Dream
A computer generated dream generated by running text from the partially complete Dream Syntax Manuscript (at the time, a collection of over 80 of Debbie's dreams from 2009-2013) through a simple markov generator scripted in Python.
In my memory, I cannot recall how it began. I have the distinct impression that we are talking. I don't believe the story was something we talked about. My lucid dreaming recording method is to use the bathroom; water flows out and over onto the tray to construct shapes, as if it were part of the lyrics.
There are the campsite, windows views, and other accoutrements of camping, but this entire dream happens at a playground at Marine Parade next to the sea. While sitting and waiting, I meet a girl named Lianne or Leanne. She is the bespectacled child actress from that wretched Channel 8 drama. I knew that I was slightly awake and able to type you a phone call of her portrait.
I find that the gate of the sand began to behave like water. I can hear them say that they were actually people once, who had taken it upon themselves to become a construct made of old grey metal. Many of the construct were Singaporean girls with a bizarre hollow see-through hole, through which a big crowd is sure to gather around.
Finally, the Ninja superhero I am waiting for finally arrives in the crowd of people whom I’ve just met. I’m not really his underling, but some sort of mundane MSG-laden comedown. I realise that he seemed to be an extreme caricature of an F1 car-racing gunman. He thanks the sidekick for the successful replication of a long stopover in Berlin, scheduled in two pieces. They said they had experienced not leaving, but in real life, he did leave London on a large black leather sofa with a giant Octopus feature.
He gives me a ride home in his new vehicle, which was a mix between an all-white Maltese and Snoopy the Dog with a hangover. I am aware it’s a trap. I don’t know why it isn’t alarming me more, but I am also aware it is almost sliced in half. But I mean, I did not really exist.
The car is passing through a corridor on a return ticket to Korea for 228 dollars. We have brought cheese and other bodily parts. The London Bus, circular objects in my hand, and the other snails have disappeared, just like that. I think to myself, our job must be very hazardous, although I cannot understand the meaning of the items I left behind. He explains that those things had been my precious old essays – things which to a non-digital native seem so large – that they are like a strange noise that doesn't come out of nowhere.
Suddenly I wake up in a sepia toned building. I take a sniff. There's a leaky packet of laundry soap dripping into a rack of wine glasses which are empty, and we are all “freaks” with physically malformed hangovers. In the fridge, there are 2 dead pigeons.
I am actually standing in a future that was, well, going somewhere, and not just drifting and pure random fucking adventure. We are immediately cast into different lives and routines that I never had a pleasant conversation about. I’m surprised because I knew it was hollow inside and the finer details are now all fuzzy, as it should be. We will only find out more about the impermanence of teeth, and our inherent cultural differences, multiplying our awkwardness.
By now, I want to get back to safety. But they were trying to find you. I didn't want to do some research on “Firetrucks”, I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to reread Wuthering Heights and visit you for dinner time.
Luckily I find you standing outside the discount shoppe. Only the big chain shops were open, and we are sitting in a place that resembled Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter in Krakow, but minus the snow. I notice that there is much more open space between two buildings than in an attic where one is taking a break from work. It is strange, but I guess its not so essential yet.
It is ending and we are simply extras on a piece of tofu that looks like a blanket.