Destroy Everything You Touch
Look, there’s no easy way of saying this, but I used to regularly experience a bad dream. A very bad dream. It was so horrific, so black in content, that it was almost amusing in its awful bleakness. Darkly hilarious, in fact. The sort of dream from which, if I were a writer of twisted and surreal comedy, I would immediately seize the bare bones of the material and craft it into a sketch that even late-night Channel 4 would probably refuse to show in their sickest moments of allegedly humorous broadcasting
I still have the dream - the nightmare, I suppose you would call it - just much more rarely these days, I’m pleased to say. It occasionally drops by to spend a few hours in my sleeping, turbulent, subconscious mind, to remind me that it’s still around and can have its desired effect. I am only revisiting it now because last night, for the first time in almost a year, it revisited me.
In this dream, it’s - and I can sense the sharp intake of breath and the rolling of eyes that will undoubtedly occur when I put this into words - well, it’s my funeral. I’m there, naturally, because in this world of dreams all the best people are able to hang out out at their own funeral, lurking in the ghostly shadows to monitor the proceedings and carefully note exactly who is there and who is notable by their absence, who cries the most and who laughs the loudest from the back of the crematorium having enjoyed one too many toasts to the deceased in the pub beforehand. Needless to say, the names are all jotted down on the final Shit List of them all for the purposes of future haunting, complete with rattling of chains and disembodied wailing.
In this dream, I have obviously entered death in the same way that I presumably spent the majority of my life - in a state of bitter and twisted cynicism. I know this because there is no funeral service as such, no fond goodbyes from loved ones, but merely a recording that is played to the assembled black-clad throng on an ancient reel-to-reel tape recorder. (If you’re seeking reassurance that this dream dates back many years, there is your proof. I was obviously under the worryingly pervasive influence of Samuel Beckett at the time, and had both read and watched Krapp’s Last Tape rather more often than was perhaps wise in my usually delicate frame of mind.) Unfortunately, the exact words of this final speech from beyond the grave are muffled and indistinct. I suspect I have returned to this dream so often because I wanted to hear what I was saying. I wanted to get a clue as to how the rest of my life would pan out from the thoughts that I gave voice to prior to my final rattling breaths.
All I can make out, however, is the surprisingly cautious and nervous opening of the recording - “Hello? Anyone? Hello? Not a whisper, not a bloody whisper” - and a bellowed, valedictory conclusion in which I instruct all those present to dance on my grave. That part, at least, I know that I deliver in no uncertain terms. Indeed, this is the point where the dream becomes even darker, even more embarrassing, and yet also comical in the extreme:
“Yes, that’s what I want you to do. Wait until the loose soil has been beaten down by the backs of the gravediggers’ spades, then dance. Dance on my grave. Dance dance dance on my grave, you fuckers! Dance! Go on, dance!”
There’s the sound of wheezing and wracked coughing, seemingly caused by smoking forty cigarettes a day throughout my entire life (even though I have never indulged in the filthy habit), then nothing. Just a sharp mechanical click of conclusion and the repeated flicking of magnetic tape against reel. End.
Exit mourners in stunned silence, presumably. I don’t know. I always wake up at that point, or drift into other dreams that overpower that one in the battle for dominance that rages in my subconscious mind. I occasionally find myself hoping that with this dream now being far less frequent, I will somehow manage to keep myself in there, in its clutches; that I will stay immersed and find out what happens next. I never do.
At about three o’clock this morning, having let this dream once again warp every corner of my mind for a brief moment or two, I awoke to a realisation. I knew what my shocked mourners were going to dance to. I suddenly had the title of the song that was going to play as they unleashed their feelings on my final resting place. The only ambiguity lay in whether the lyrics were going to be directed at me, the deceased, or the people stamping merrily on my bones.
And as if by magic, a woman with very clipped, precise tones appeared to sing synthetically and robotically into my ear that I (or they) destroy everything I (or they) touch. I couldn’t agree with her more, on either interpretation of the lyrics. Come join the party, then. Dance, you fuckers. Dance dance dance!
I can’t say that I exactly enjoy this dream, but in a sense it’s now so familiar to me that when it reappears I treat it rather like an old friend. An old friend with seriously disturbing emotional problems, granted, but an old friend nonetheless. Still, I can’t help hoping that I dream of nothing but bunnies tonight. Lolloping bunnies. Pink, lolloping bunnies with friendly, gleaming eyes rather than crazed stares of death. Please.