The Nude Run

 

Today I found a recurrence of my nude run of previous time.

As a young men. It reobably began when I heard of a health clinic in Switzerland which, having invented  muesli, also advocated "air baths," where residents would strip off their clothes and recline in the fresh air, with resulting health improvement.

Now, it occurred to me that you did not need to engage the considerable cost of air travel and expensive accommodation to benefit from air baths, all you needed was to strip off and lie in the garden, or, better still, go out for a jog in the Nude.

So, in my dream world I took to getting up early in the morning and going for a nude jog around the roads of Dublin, before any one would be awake. Alas, it was inevitable that milkmen or other busybodies, would find me running in the Nude and call the gardai to have me arrested. Also, as I ran around, people would start to wake up before I got home, and I would have considerable excitement trying to get safely home. Mr entirely innocent walk would be misenterpret as criminal activity.

Now, my present dream commenced with me driving somewhere in my car. I coceived the idea that I should protect my house-key from robbers by asking my garage manage to mind my key. Fair enough, but when I went to retrieve my key, the manager refused to give it back, on the basis that I still was not safe from prospective robbers. What could I do? I decided to drive back home and hope to access my home in some way. And now, in that incongruous dream way, here I was driving naked in my car, with all the hazards of people considering me a criminal for being naked.

What is the meaning of this dream? I would think it derived from my current intention to go on a holiday, and having, in consequence, the need to guard my passport and other vulnerable possessions, as well as my stroke experience where a doctor refused to give me back mey keys.

Feeling Fair Play

 My grand-daughter is in a senior class at secondary school. I was given the unlikely task, in my dream, to make a presentation to the class.

When I was that age, I was in a debating society that proposed lots of political improvements. Through my long life I was a civil servant, a lawyer.  a development officer, a trade union representative, a residents association, an Acton group and so on

So what to do for this teen-age Class! Well I passed a cheef of paper to each member of the class. Then I said, "There are three thousand trade union members in this factory in Seattle. So, I want you to describe how Fair Play is to be achieved.

Fhen. I sat back and let the pupils deliberate the issue.

I thought that some pupils would grasp the issues: the need for a democratic constitution; for individual representation of each grade and section; for proper selection of chairperson, secretary and treasurer; for understanding of each of these roles, and for universal Fair Play.

I knew that there would be many who would strive for democracy and Fair Play, but there would be others who would focus on their own advantage entirely, seeking favour and ingratiation.

Moving Portrait

 

I dreamt that I wanted to paint a picture.

I did not have a canvas, so I cut a piece out of a bed-sheet and stretched and tacked it over a frame.

When I commenced to paint, the sheet was soft under my brush, and the paint passed through the cloth. Not to worry, I put the paint on thick and built up paint on paint.

My subject was an old man. He had once been a boy and then a middle-aged man, before growing old.

Now you know yourself that the marks you put on the canvas are seldom the same as what you intended. When I reviewed my progress, I was alarmed to find that what I had painted was the boy. I grappled again with the task. Now it looked like the middle-aged man. I struggled on and finally captured the old man

I depicted the right hand as raised and the left hand across the waist. The fingers were to be stretched out, but they looked folded in. Not to worry, I worked over them and stretched them out.

A man, whose name was Seamus O'Reilly, was there. He looked at my picture and asked me, 

"What is it?"

What a question!

I looked at the picture. It was not a single solid image. Before my eyes it kept changing: young man, middle-aged man, old man. The hands kept opening and closing.

"I suppose you could say it is an optical illusion, " I said: "I offer the viewer conflicting visual clues, so (s)he will see as if the subject is growing from boy to man to old age and grasping at life."

We were in a Community Centre. The people were taking little interest in my creative work, regarding it as one would regard a child's scribble stuck on a fridge.

"It should be in a museum of Art," I said. " It should be in a room of it's own, and patrons should be charged  a fee to see it."

Interpretation: no need for psychics; when I look in the mirror, I see a boy or young man, but that's no what is really there.

The Silence Key

I describe elsewhere how I have re-discovered the benefits of breath-holding and silent breathing. Now, I dreamt that, when my wife and I arrived home from town, our keys would not open the door. Indeed, there was not even a keyhole.

I rang the door-bell, and then looked around for pebbles, in case Diarmuid was wearing his ear-phones and would not hear the bell.

But Diarmuid heard the bell all right and came and opened the door.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"O, there was something wrong with the door," said Diarmuid, "so I called Magog, and he put in a new door lock. Look, here's the master key," and he opened a little key safe that had been attached to the inside wall, wherein sat the "master key."

The Master Key was like a small paper-clip enclosed in see-through, solid plastic.

"Gosh," I thought, "So small, it would be lost in your pocket (or hand-bag)." But, then I saw it had a hole to which a key-ring could be fixed, so that was all right.

"Where's the key=hole?" I asked, for I could not see one.

"O no," said Diarmuid. "There's no key-hole. The Master Key is used to register the users. Once a user is registered, the lock automatically recognises him or her and automatically opens the door."

"So, how is a user registered?"

"Show the Master Key to the lock. When it clicks, state the user's Code Name, look into the lock and breathe normally for a minute."

"Normally?"

"Yes, no panting, snorting or snuffling."

"But, what is normal?"

"Remember," said Diarmuid, "Silent Breathing is the Key."

"And Code Name?"

"Well," said Diarmuid, "we could use Frank, Tess, Dermo, Tom, Neef, Shinner, Ron ..."

"Okay, give me the Master Key and I will try to register myself."

I showed the Master Key to the lock. Ir went click. I stood close to the lock and said "Krunchy." Then I  looked steadily at the lock, breathing silently for a minute, and was duly registered.

"Supposing there is an emergency, and people, who are not registered, want to get out?

"In that case," said Diarmuid, "There is an emergency Code Word anybody can use to open the door. I have registered 'Emerge' as the emergency Code Word."

We went in, and I found a letter addressed to me inside. 

"O No!" I exclaimed, "another medical appointment." This time it was an appointment at a clinic for a Metabolic Test, whatever that means.

I went to the clinic, and found I was to sit at a card table on an upright chair and answer a book of questions. There were about three hundred A4 sized pages in the book. This will take three hours, I thought. But soon I found that every question in the book had the same answer. Silent Breathing was the key, and I flew through the test, giving a silent breath as the answer to every question.

Land Office Reform

 Now that my prostate is somewhat enlarged, I often wake at night to go to the toilet. My dream-world provides me with a wake-up theme, often enwrapped in an elaborate adventure.

Last night, I dreamt I was back in the Land Registry, where I had worked for over 35 years. I could not go to my old room, but followed the flow of people to a large hall. On the way, I passed the gents' toilets, but they were closed. The Ladies' toilets were opened, but I passed on to the hall.

The hall was laid out as an extensive open-plan area. There was a large number of small tables, similar to card tables, each accompanied by a straight-backed chair. I found the table allocated to me. 

After my name, the tag said "Leader." I knew instantly what this meant. It meant that in future, people would not be sending cases to me, as trained lawyer, for decision, but would look to me for guidance in deciding cases themselves. Decision by esoteric knowledge-heads would be replaced by decisions by ordinary staff following clear instructions. (Instead of deciding cases, experts would in future decide case-types). I sat on my chair and waited.

Imagine if this principle were applied to the Justice System! A person found stealing or in possession of drugs would be dealt with on the spot. A policeman would simply take him/her in charge and deliver him/her to a reform centre for treatment, the police working under guidance of experts. How much more efficient this would be than the courts' system!

I recall a case where two youths attempted to rob a local shop. The shop-lady grappled with them and held onto one until the police arrived. The police collected the second youth, took them to the station, charged them, and released them for later prosecution. Next day they were back mocking the shop-lady, saying "It will be your word against ours," and so it was. In court, the shop-lady was asked to point out the perpetrators (although she had physically delivered them to the police) and the defence made sure to have some look-alikes in court. Entirely a farcical system!

My father had been a policeman, and retired in the very year I began to study law. I asked him what were the offences for which he made most arrests. He said "Drunk and Disorderly," and "Behaviour likely to lead to a Breach of the Peace." In these cases, perpetrators were usually held overnight in the station and then released without charge. Peace was upheld. But now policemen stand idly by while the peace is disturbed and later refer perpetrators to an inefficient courts system.

Back to my dream.

A man approached the podium. To my surprise, it was my brother, Jerry, an outsider to the Land Registry. He said:

"My name is Jerry Killeen. The management team have requested me to take charge of the restructuring process."

This had great significance to me. Jerry is an accountant who had previously been involved in the restructuring of several companies, including

• United Biscuits, which had amalgamated several independent biscuit companies. A tin of biscuits could not be costed, because of the "Broken Biscuit" privilege, i.e., the right of workers at all levels, both in the manufacturing and in the distribution, to take tins of supposedly broken biscuits. Jerry was part of a team that, with cooperation of the trade unions, replaced the privileges by an increase in salary, and thereby made the biscuit business more efficient.
• Dublin Port and Docks Board, where he was part of a team that replaced the right of individual dockers to take ownership of the loading and unloading of ships by a rational system.

Jerry went on :

"You will have noticed that everything has changed. However, nothing has changed."

In the case of United Biscuits, although restructured, it remained a biscuit company. In the case of the Port and Docks Board, it remained a loader and unloader of ships. In the case of the Land Registry, it would remain a registry of titles, only restructured on the inside.

I did not stay to hear the  rest of  Jerry's speech. At this point, I noticed that the Gents' toilets had been re-opened, so I rose and headed for the toilet. This was the signal to my body to wake up. I woke up and actually headed for the toilet.

A Mountain Air

 One of the places in my dream world is a hut at the foot of a wild, misty mountain, where I spend the life of a hermit, with just one set of (old) clothes, a fireplace, a timber bench for a bed and sacks for bed covers, and I live on fish from the mountain lake, roots, bilberries, and leaves.

Recently I dreamt that I heard a lonely flute tune floating down off the mountain. I listened for a while, then I took out my tin whistle and played along, developing the tune. 

Waking, I remembered the dream, but had to re-imagine the dream tune;

A Mountain Air

Like-well's Tome

 I dreamt I was in some Alpine place, high up on a slope. Across the valley were massive mountains, dotted with many an interesting site: cliffs, forests, villages, churches and so on, and below in the valley many other equally lovely and interesting things, as well as a lake with cruisers and rowing boats, but all at too great a distance to be other than a blob on a picture of the mountains.

I had my camera with me, which had a very limited zoom. I also had a massive hard-covered book, called Lecheuelle's Phototectomy, if I recollect correctly, which contained massive technical instructions on how to make the most of  photography in that place, which was totally useless to me.

One of our party was a woman named Anne. She kept on saying to me, "Let me have a look .... Can I have it again for a moment ... You should take the village over there .... You should take the little church .... You should take the village dancers ..."

I got completely annoyed with her (piling up tasks for me, all quite impossible to carry out);. I got angry, and I said,

"If you want to capture something, just point and click. Don't tell me about it, just do it."

Now, in my waking state, I realise that my subconscious mind was up to its old verbal, punning, tricks. "Lecheuelle's," posing as a French/ Germanic name, is merely a misspelling of "Like-well's," and "Phototectomy", no doubt is just "A tome about the techniques of photography." 

"Like-well's Tome," about the technical details of photography, represents my accumulation of technical knowledge that has become quite useless to me in this "Point and Click" world. 

Free Energy

 I dreamt that Philomena next door was in our house chatting with my wife (as neighbours often do).

When Phil mentioned that her mobile phone had become very hot in her pocket, I decided to insert my male, scientific, view-point into the conversation.

"Well," I said, "your phone works, of course, off microwaves. Microwaves are a form of energy, and often convert into heat. They can also be converted, do you know, into electricity.

"Over a hundred years ago, in fact, Nikola Tesla erected a very tall aerial in America to transmit electricity by microwaves across the Atlantic."

"But it didn't work, did it?" said Phil.

"O yes, it did," said I. "It worked until his bank pulled the plug on the finance. When the banker heard Nikola say he would deliver free electricity to Africa, the bank withdrew the money and the project stopped. The banker wanted to make millions, not give stuff away for free. 

"In fact, they are now doing that very thing in Africa. In Nairobi, where my sister works, the slum-dwellers all have smart-phones, but they don't have electricity; so the phone companies provide them with chargers that charge their phones from the microwaves transmitted through the air.

"So, you could set up a receiver in your garden to receive microwaves and convert them into electricity."

"So, I would have to set up a big tall Antenna in my garden," said Phil.

"O No," I said. "The transmitter must be a shaft, a tall aerial, but the receptor should be a bowl-shaped receiver."

"Well," said Phil, "I have a very large Pyrex bowl that I never use, because it is far too big for anything. We could use that."

"I was really thinking of something larger still, but we could use your Pyrex bowl as a proto-type."

So, next thing, Philomena and I were constructing a microwave receiver from her Pyrex bowl. I bored a hold in the bottom of the bowl, because it would be outside and we did not want it to fill with water. Next, I pasted the outside with glue and wound yards and yards of copper wire round and round the bowl, making it into a great bowl-shaped coil.  

I tested it with a sensitive voltmeter, and found that there was, indeed, a difference in potential between the start and end points of the coil. Then we attached the extremities to a direct-current battery-charger and commenced to charge batteries using our device. (All battery-chargers are direct current, but the commercial ones incorporate a device to convert DC to AC). 

All this happened in the dream, of course, not in reality.

Computer island

 I dreamt I went to stay on an island off the west coast of Ireland where, in the dream, my sister had gone to do a computer course. This was an unusual computer course set up by an American, from Silicon Valley, California, who had gone to live on the island, where he "worked from home" providing software to client companies in America. His specialty was motion, and his course was based on the innovations he had developed.

I, on the other hand, was only concerned in capturing the essence of the island in a painting. 

My sister persuaded me, nevertheless, to attend at one of the computer classes. To my surprise, I was subjected to a long and penetrating interview by the American, where I exercised considerable restraint in not answering, "mind your own business."

Following the interview, the American said to the gathering, inter alia, 

"Krunchie will be assigned to programming the movement of the currach in the sea environment," which sounded to me more like a life-time commitment than a casual few days course. I did not, in other words feel committed to the task. (A "Currach" is a small sea-worthy boat used by fishermen on the west coast of Ireland).

Next, the American had me watch several videos describing the mathematics of movement, in particular, the mathematics of helicopter and drone movements. I was dismayed and perplexed at the task, but he said, 

"You don't have to master this maths. That has already been done by others who spent lifetimes on it. What we have to do is lift the appropriate bits into our programs."

So next, I had to view videos of currachs traversing the choppy waters off the west of Ireland, and spend a day physically learning how to manipulate a currach. 

Then I was left to the task of describing the movements of the currach in the American's software. Well, I can tell you I was not going to put my heart and soul into it, but lifted the existing movement software from other places, dumped the results on my master and "left the building."

Word came to me that the American was surprised with the speed of my response and delighted with the quality of my work.

I concentrated on my painting project, making many sketches of the island, the island people,  the "intruders." Myself in pensive mood, currachs in the water, and so on.

My sister viewed my work, but said,

"Your motive is not really to describe the island, or the people, but to express the loneliness, the isolation, in fact the contented loneliness in your heart."

Suddenly I understood the picture I needed to paint. I set up a very large canvas, five foot by four foot, and, with broad strokes, quickly painted a scene: a light, creamy-grey sky with broad streaks of light blue, a grey-green island with blotches of creamy-grey rocks and brighter green grassy patches, and, at the bottom, a grey-green sea with strips of white foam. The reason for the large canvas was that the human figure in the middle of the scene could be presented fully and not just as a blob. It is mainly the figure that suggested the "contented loneliness." While no attempt was made to make it a sel-portrait, the commentators quickly identified me in the figure.

Dublin in the Rare Old Times

What a sensational archive of images the mind holds.

Last night in my dreaming and reverie, I reviewed hundreds of images of suburban Dublin, gardens and hedges and buildings and footpaths, doors and windows, crowds moving this way and that way, and people in swimming pools, pale white-skinned people and darker skinned ones too. Then I saw modern black-glass buildings and newly paved streets, active shop-fronts and closed down premises, buses and pedestrianized places. Images on images and images.

What brought on this great exhibition of images in my head\?  Undoubtedly my activities of yesterday.

First, of course, I had my breakfast. Then I took a bus into town and made my way to Markiewicz sports and fitness centre, where I had a swim and sauna. Markiewicz is in a newly re-built section of Dublin with mighty black-glass buildings, adjoining the Tara Street railway station, but  nearby are many old buildings and some dereliction. Then I  took myself up to  Yamamori Sushi, near the Halfpenny Bridge for lunch, where I was delighted to find that black rice was back, having been missing for weeks (probably due to trade hold-ups arising from the current conflicts in the outside world). The nearby streets are pedestrianized and re-paved beautifully, and there is a pleasant new hotel (Motel One)  just beside Arnott's.

I bussed home, to review my James Joyce file, for tomorrow, in Clareville Centre, we celebrate Bloomsday and I will wear a white jacket and straw hat and pretend to be himself.

Then I went off in my car to do the weekly shopping. I had left it a bit late in the afternoon, and the traffic was very slow-moving. New urban centres have been built up beyond Finglas, but the roads have not been expanded. The government wants to get people out of cars and into buses, but it can't work because buses don't take you where you want to go, but only on scheduled routes. What the city needs is Krunchie's Cab, but nobody has read my book yet.

Back from shopping, I went to my office and reviewed my recording of Lissmulgee. I had tried this to many different accompaniments. Last night I put it to a Yamaha style called "Hawaiian," and this seemed to be the best yet. So I opened up my recording software and added my voice. Was it perfect? No! But perfection is the enemy of progress, so I decided to run with it. First I needed a picture for the record cover. Now, I had taken a whole series of photos in Lismulgee years  ago, but they have been lost on a back-up device that broke down. I have been using Photoshop for years, in a version that is no longer supported and just now has been rejected by my version of Windows, so I have installed an imitation called "GIMP" which I am trying to learn to use. Well I put up a recent bland picture of Lissmulgee and doctored it as best I could, then uploaded it to Amazing Radio. (I will post it to Distrokid, YouTube Music and all the rest later).

Having done that I had my tea (egg and salad) and watched the News and Heartbeat.

All this would have been ringing round in my head as I hit the pillow, but mostly the character I met in the Sauna early in the day, - a young reformed drug-addict. I first encountered him in the sauna last Friday, when he appeared with two companions, whom I first took to be like himself, but it transpired that one was a social worker or supervisor and the other was a good friend who had been a school-mate and was there to support him. The character had been to jail, and, that having been a rather unpleasant experience was determined to stay out of trouble. His wife had got a barring order against him, so he was not allowed to see his two or three children. He says it is hi wife who is using drugs, not he, but a social worker told him to prove this. He said to her: "Isn't that your job. You are supposed to observe things." However, he took a video on his phone of his wife buying drugs and sent it to the social worker. He was obliged to support his wife, but could not afford rent at the same time, so his landlord became nasty and evicted him. However, he came under the Homeless Services, and they got him a new place and pay for his rent. When he is employed, they reduce the rent subsidy.

Now, it appears that Sauna is part of his rehabilitation programme. The social worker supervisor was apparently there to ensure that he took his sauna. All three were watching the clock. After a while, the social worker said he had to go now, as he had other duties to attend, and reminded your man to do five more minutes, which he did. When the social worker was gone, conversation between the two friends confirmed his function. They had both known this social worker when they were at school: he lived on another street, and they had only met him again on this day.

So, on Wednesday I saw your man again in the Sauna. He was by himself, and it seemed that his rehabilitation was progressing.

When I went to bed all these adventures were a jumble and I saw the old Dublin changing in multiple images old and new.

The White Strand song

 When I woke up this morning, the White Strand song ("Amhrán na Trá Báine") was in my mind, for no reason at all. This was not a dream, but a memory. I was 16 when I heard of this song first, on summer camp in the Gaeltacht. Brother Flately, whom we called Pancho, was a pioneer in using a tape recorder for Irish lessons. He played back to us students a recording he had made of a debate by local men. One of the speakers used the phrase "Is cuma leis an gCeallach," (meaning "It doesn't matter at all"). I thought the actual words used were "Is cuma leis an ngeallach," literally meaning "The moon doesn't mind," but Pancho explained that the literal meaning, taken from a song well-known in Conamara, was "Kelly doesn't Care.)" (Kelly doesn't care, because he is the man who took over the farm following the tragic drowning of the author's three brothers at sea while fishing in a currach).

Now, it turns out that this song is one of the Great Songs (Amhrán Mór) of Conamara. An "Amhrán Mór" does not tell of a love affair. or trajedy, or comic event, or politics, but, like a novel, tells the whole story of an era.

The song opens with the words "Mo mhíle slán le hÉirinn bhocht, is nach breá an rud an tEarrach féin," ("My thousand farewells to poor Ireland, and isn't Spring itself wonderful").

I never got the full import of these words until forty years later. An elderly cousin in America wrote to my wife how he would love to see a traditional bonfire on his forthcoming visit. Now, he was coming in August, not June, which is bonfire month, but we organised a community bonfire that August to please him (and ourselves, of course). Talking to me at the bonfire, he said, that, if he ever visited Ireland again, it would be in the spring. Why so? "I recall in my youthful memories that, in spring, all the hedgerows would burst into white blossoms and the fields yellow with buttercups. This is the Ireland I still dream of."

And this is the wonder of spring that Brigid O'Malley sings about and that every emigrant from rural Ireland would "get."

The tune is recognised in Conamara as the air of Bridid O'Malley's song, but it is older than that. A young emigrant from my father's place, on his way to Australia, in 1904, wrote, "The Lusmagh Fields so Green." Sending it home in a letter, a traditional musician put it to this same tune, proving that the tune was there before Bridid's words.

"Lusmagh Fields so Green" is sung by Johnny McEvoy, and I have an English version of the other " Farewell to Poor Ireland," both available, inter alia, on YouTube.

Brigid O'Malley emigrated to Boston after her three brothers were drowned. She was there for the Great Depression and times were hard. She eventually returned to Conamara where she was famous for singing her song. She also sang it to acclaim in Boston, but completed the story with verses added after coming home.

My Inner Architect

Summary

 I  dreamt I was on an outing and adventure with my two brothers. After many adventures, we had quite an exciting journey home through several amazing forms of transport. The last  part of the journey, however, was to walk up the lane bringing us home. When I arrived home, I saw that the locality had been transformed by visionary architecture.

Background

Now let me explain the geography of home. In the later 19th century, as Dublin expanded, a railway line was constructed from Broom Bridge to Broadstone. Part of the construction involved blasting through rock. The debris from this rock was thrown into a heap beside the railway, and this heap was kept from slipping into the adjoining Tramline Cottages (built to accommodate workers on the tramline), and building ground on the other side. In the 1930s ten houses were built on this well-settled hill of debris. Our house was one of these.

My final treck

I was weary and tired, but my brothers were still fairly energetic. I let them go ahead, and it was quite a few minutes before I dragged myself to our destination. As you approach the end, you get a glimpse of our back-yard from the lane. Wow! some architect and developer had transformed our back-yard into a wonderful garden. There were two small teams of big children playing a ball-game, using bats and a shuttlecock, in the grass area, and many of our adult relations sitting around in deck-chairs.

My brothers and I had often used shuttlecocks in our back yard. This was because you could give a shuttlecock a fair whack without canting it, for the "feathers" would slow it down in the air.

My welcome

I reached the back garden, backpack hunching me forward, and expected the relations to jump with joy on meeting me, but no, they sat there indifferent  to my arrival, just acquitting me a nod. This is the same as the welcome I got as a toddler from Mrs. McCormack, when I first ventured out our garden gate, having mastered the art of walking, and thinking myself a great fellow, when she exclaimed, "Oh hello Roger, and hello Jerry, and is this poor little Francie," the latter being me. No  welcome for me, just a  reference to me being poorly and little. That had put me in my place once and for all.

The Architecture

I went to my room. It had been transformed by the new architecture! I looked out the window and saw, in a wide panorama, that the whole locality had been gloriously transformed.

My Railway memories

Now, near our home, as I have just explained, was a railway. This had been disused as a passenger line for many years, as visitors from the country were then dumped at Kingsbridge (now Heuston) Station. There was, however, a tall wire fence all along the line to prevent people from trespassing, which resulted in a large stretch of land, which could have been utilised as amenity, being kept as a wilderness.

Not that the wire fence stopped us kids from trespassing. We had a rule: "He who cants must retrieve." This rule gave me a moral dilemma. My sister, who is a nun, has recently explained that, pursuant to the theology of Thomas Aquinas, when faced with a choice of two evils, the lesser evil is the moral choice. This would have eased my conscience, for I and my siblings were under parental commandment never to go on the railway line (or other person's garden).

So, on the street, I was faced with two conflicting rules: the rule to retrieve the ball I canted on the railway line, and the parental command. Disobeying the latter was, of course, the lesser evil, and therefore the moral choice, but I did not realise that at the time, and, so, was riddled with guilt.

The Inner Architect

Let me explain now what the inner architect had done: the whole area of the railway line, its adjoining houses and gardens, and our own ten-house "keyhole" enclave, had been absorbed into a magnificent development with beautiful apartments and amenity areas. My cousin, a visionary architect, was in my presence, and I expressed my delight with the architecture. "Yes," he said wistfully, "This is how it could be,"

The Message

Being a complex dream, it seems to have a complex message, which I understand to have 3 parts:

1. To have adventure, you have to travel a long way from home (to mountain, seaside or country) because the amenities of your locality (e.g., railway and canal lands and school grounds) are  out of bounds.
2. If you engage a super modern form of transport, it will not bring you home, but dump you at a big hub, from where you have to engage other forms of transport, which, bringing you ultimately to your locality, still don't bring you home, and, tired and weary, you still have to  trudge the last bit, weighed down under the weight of your back-pack. All this could be improved by implementing Krunchie's Cab, which would bring you all the way home in one comfortable carriage from wherever you were.
3. Visionary architecture could develop attractive localities with attractive buildings and community amenities. (Instead we have seen massive, characterless, housing estates, and mish-mash of different, often ugly, commercial buildings). Great cities were developed on a singular plan, including Georgian Dublin, but, since independence, ours has been largely a mishmash of mediocrity.

Attractive new apartments which blend well with adjoining sylvan suburb of Glasnevin.

Just across the road, new slum-style apartments. How could planning officers allow such: why is compliance with the local styles not enforced?

Killeens in Tiananmen Square

In my dream  world there is a photo, taken by my son Tomás, who never actually visited China, of a picture hanging in an Inn in Tiananmen Square. This picture shows a British soldier standing beside an Old Ford car outside this Inn in Tiananmen Square in 1918. The soldier had a peculiar similarity to myself - not as I now am, but as a young adult before I started to grow a beard.

In last night's dream, my wife and I visited this Inn, and, in curiosity, looked to see if the original picture was still there. Well, what did we find?

Curious about my son's interest in the photo, the manager of the Inn had enquired from China's public records office about the original picture. He found that the photo Tomás had copied was only part of a larger photo showing the British army in occupation of Tiananmen Square in 1918 (my  dream' distortion of history). The manager had obtained a copy of this large picture, which now hung in the foyer of the Inn, alongside a new copy of Tomás' picture. We admired this larger picture.

The Chinese intelligence service had actually tagged all the British soldiers in the large picture, and, there, clearly tagged, beside the  Old Ford car, outside the Inn on Tiananmen Square, was "Pte. Thomas Killeen, of The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers."

Where did this dream come from? Well, it came out of the disturbed state of the world as per world news: Russia, Ukraine, China, tumbling again  towards world conflict, jumbled up with  worries of renewal of conflict in Northern Ireland, or wherever peace is not actively promulgated, and not even I am immune from involvement. Conflict can rage anywhere and Tiananmen Square is still in everybody's consciousness.

Day Dreams

 From infancy, I made a habit of entering into a pleasant reverie before falling asleep. 

When I was at the crawling stage, lying in bed, I would plan next day's climbing adventure. I had an ambition to climb onto the sitting-room sofa, and from the arm of the sofa up onto the window-sill and look out on the front garden. I remember being annoyed when I heard my mother telling Mrs Breen that, among my strange activities, I had climbed up onto the window-sill. I was appalled to hear my mother tell a blatant lie, for I had never succeeded in reaching this goal (except in my reverie). Every time, I either failed or someone intervened to prevent me.

Later, when I could walk and run a few steps, I planned how I might fly. Initially, after I realised my plan to climb up into the air would never work, I would flap my imaginary wings (attached to my shoulder blades). Then I planned to sew a wind-proof shawl to my shirt or jacket sleeves, and to the centre of the back. No need for neat stitching; rough work would suffice. Then with my arms spread wide, I would run at the house, taking advantage of the up-draft as I got near the house, and rise up to the sky. Flap, flap, flap to gain height and then cruise along like the seagulls.

With more maturity, I realised that none of these plans could have any material success, but I could take off in an imaginary flight by spreading my imaginary wings, lean forward from the hips, and take off.

In my reverie, I could see into the back gardens of the houses of the roads around Phibsboro, then fly over Dalymount Park, and continue on down over Drumcondra, Fairview, the Docks, and out over the Irish Sea, or, by leaning one way or the other, depending on the direction of the wind, turn around and fly over the island of Ireland and out the the cliffs along the west coast - where there was much to see and admire and many (imaginary) adventures to be had.

In previous centuries, wise women who undertook such flights were condemned as witches. On their flights, they could see into their neighbours houses and observe the private lives of the people who lived there. While these flights are imaginary, you see a lot of things already known to your subconscious mind, which is constantly storing and interpreting data, most of which will never be called into play in real life.

In our own time, some people call these "Yogic flights," and profess that you can influence others (for good, of course) by communicating with them in their dreams by means of such flights.

In some recent recordings, I have attempted to reproduce the moods contained in such flights:

To hear this tune properly, spread your arms out like the seagulls wings, tuck in your tummy, lean forward, and press the play button. Enjoy the flight: it is better than any real thing.

In this imaginary flight, I rise out through the stratosphere into open space, and venture out of the solar system into the greater cosmos. What wonderful things are there to be seen (I mean "imagined"). But take care, since there is no air out there, you will continue, not in a "state of rest," for you are already moving, but in a "state of continuous motion in a straight line," and will not be able to turn around, unless "acted upon by an external force." To be meticulous, maybe you should bring a set of small rockets with you, to enable your trip home, or simply call the project off whenever you feel like it.

Of course, the reverie can be used just to muse over other things: What might have happened if you had taken a different path at one of the many crossroads in your life:

Or just suppose you were elsewhere and enjoying other environments:

L'Escargot

Now that I often get up at nights to relieve my bladder, I have dreams that cause me to wake up for this purpose. Mostly they have me scurrying around searching in vain for a toilet or secluded place to let go my load.

Last night's dream was different. 

I dreamt that there was one poem on the Leaving Certificate English course that was highly neglected. The poem was entitled "l' Escargot." This is a French word meaning "The Snail," but the poem is in English, and, in it, the poet, in very clever language, shows that it is a disguise for the Snake. I can't actually quote the poem, since I have never learned it.

Now, from the Bible, we know that the Snake causes disobedience to the Master and consequent Expulsion. No teacher wants this idea to be lurking in students' minds, so they neglect this poem. 

The Department of Education appointed a special inspector to look into the matter, and he found that "l'Escargot" is the most Discriminated poem in all the secondary schools in all the 26 Counties of Ireland, and that, in all schools, boys are forced to stand in front of the class reciting childish poems, while the Snake is rising up between their legs.

At this point, I woke up realising I must visit the toilet.

Three Dreams of Eighty

 I had  three strange dreams last night. The facts that I was not dream-watching and remember the three dreams indicates that I woke up after each dream before falling back to sleep again.

The Swimming Pool

In the first dream, I dreamt that I was entering a swimming pool. A voice over the public address system said, "All swim to the Balla Rushda, join hands and swim in line."

I did not know what the "Balla Rushda" was, but swam to the point that others were heading for. I saw a contradiction in the instruction to "join hands and swim in line," but had learned in life, when given confusing instructions to "follow the instructions," whereupon all would usually become clear in the execution.

When I reached the place the swimmers were heading for, I found a school-mate of the OCS "class of 61" (i.e., our class that graduated from secondary school in 1961), was positioned there, shaking hands with all the swimmers as they arrived, and then sending them, one after the other, in a particular direction. I followed suit and soon found myself swimming alone in a large pool. My nose was above water and I found that I could swim effortlessly along, breathing as I went, just as if walking. The water was at body temperature, so I could swim for miles without tiring or getting out of breath.

The Retirement Dance

In the next dream, I found myself with the surviving members of the Class of 61, about a dozen of us. We were in a theatre, in a preparation room behind the stage and were to prepare to dance out onto the stage in a troop to celebrate our retirement.

I was afraid my, and our, lack of stamina, strength and skill, would make a hames of the demonstration, and considered what steps could I, in fact, perform. Some simple, easy, steps would do it. So, I said, "Stomp, stomp, Step a Little; Stomp, stomp, Step a Little," and stomped and stepped forward in rhythm with the words.

Dr. Oliver McHugh, my former GP, and my successor as Chairman of Claremont Residents Association, a long time ago, was in charge of the band and the choir. He raised his two batons, and said, "Listen: Where, o Where, is Pamela Farrell," in the same rhythm as my "Stomp, o Stomp, and Step a Little." Now, when I was chairman of the Residents Association back in 1980/ 81, I had asked a local musician to organise a concert of local talent as part of our summer Festival, and he had organised a brilliant variety troop made up of our beautiful young mothers, who had gone on to win awards in several competitions. Pamela Farrell was one of these.

The band played and the choir sang, and repeated over and over, "Where, o Where, is Pamela Farrell," and the Class of 61, a troop of eighty year olds, none of them, I can tell you, as elegant or beautiful as the young Pamela Farrell, stomped, stomped and stepped a little, out on the stage to the applause of the audience.

The House Full of Children

I dreamt I was in my own house.

I went into the kitchen, but it was full of children, sitting at the breakfast table and up at the counter. So, I headed for the front room, but another troop of children were there, ensconced and feeding.

I went into the middle room, but could not negotiate myself through the children feasting there.

"Krunchie," said one of the kids, "That was a very long speech you gave last night."

"I gave a speech last night?" I asked.

"Yes," said a senior child, "You were very drunk and gave a long speech."

"Oh!" I said, "and what did I talk about."

"You talked about corporal punishment, about punishing the down-trodden." 

Then I woke up. 

Interpretation

These three dreams occurred  on the eve of my eightieth birthday, and all focused on the theme of "being eighty."

The Swimming Pool dwelt on the importance of keeping fit and active by swimming or walking "miles."

The Retirement Dance suggested that though our beauty "is adorned with age," as James Joyce might say, we eighty year olds can still put on a performance, if suitably tailored to our ability. Pamela Farrell was chosen as a representative of the young and beautiful because her name matched the rhythm of my "Stomp, Stomp, Step a Little," and because, unlike other members of the variety troop of 1981, she had left Claremont soon afterwards, while most of the other members had remained to grow older in the community. The Dream-master borrowed the word "Stomp" from my tune "Lakota Stomp."

The House Full of Children illustrated how children of the present generation are positive, outspoken and opinionated, whereas my generation was repressed and inhibited.

Bed of Books

 I was in bed with my brother, my old bed of my years of childhood. This was fine until my second brother came into the bed. The bed was big enough when we were boys, but now that we are adults, it is rather crowded. Not only crowded, but too warm to sleep. I wondered lazily if I should get out and sleep on the floor, where it would be cooler.

I lazily got out of the bed and surveyed the floor. There was plenty of space on the floor, at the foot of be bed, but it was piled with books and files and copy-books and reams of paper. I decided that, rather than try and clear a space, I would lie on top of the lot. This proved quite comfortable. I lay half on my front and half on my side. My shoulder dipped into a hollow in the pile of papers and my upper arm and leg were each supported by a little mound of books. However, my head was on a rather hard support.

I wondered if I should rise and take a pillow from the bed. Just then one of my brothers stirred and mumbled, "All Right?" I said, "I need my pillow," but he had turned over and gone back to sleep. I noticed that the pillow had been thrown down to the bottom of the bed. I could reach up my arm and grab it without rising. I did this, put the pillow under my head; and drifted into a dream.

In the dream my neighbour, Emmet, came across to my house with a proposal. He wanted us to play a tune he had dedicated to his grand-daughter. He called the tune "To my beautiful granddaughter." I suggested he should name the granddaughter in the title: "To my beautiful granddaughter, Emily," and he agreed. (Emily is a name proposed by the dream, not the name of an actual granddaughter.

He gave me a copy of the sheet music for the tune. I was to play on the tin whistle, and Emmet would play the Jews' Harp. I played the first bar, and it was very nice. There were no notes in the second bar, and I stopped. Emmet kept going on the Jews' Harp. Then he stopped and said, "You come in there." But I said, "There is nothing there in my copy. You better get me a proper copy." Then I said "It's very nice --  it's simple." Then, in case he might take "Simple" as a criticism, I said, "Simple is good."

The tune was actually my tune, "A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose," in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor (author of the poem of that title), who died almost a year ago.

As I said "Simple is good," I glanced up at the audience, for we were in a little theatre. There was only one person in the audience, Paschal Donohoe, the Minister for Finance. When he heard me saying "Simple is Good," he smiled and nodded.

Emmet went home to print out another copy of the sheet music, and I drifted back to sleep.

Then I heard the handle of the bedroom door turning. I lay quiet and alert. Somebody came quietly into the room and went over to my side of the bed. (I was lying on the floor still). Then I heard some pages turning. The intruder was rifling through my writings. I decided to confront him. 

I uttered a shout, "Hoi," and jolted myself, as one would do if awakening from sleep. I woke up and found that I was not on the floor on a pile of books, nor in bed with my brothers, nor confronting an intruder, but in my normal sleeping place beside my wife. It was a bit warm all right.

Interpretation:

2 days later, I find an interpretation in my head. I am more comfortable with my books and papers than with the company of humans. Since my wife retired from her position as Manager of Clareville Day Centre, last February, there have been a stream of celebrations, funerals, weddings and visitations; plenty of small-talk and little time for my music-composition, blogs or books. 

The tune that "Emmet" proposed to me in the dream was my tune "A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose." Today I looked it up and found that I had made two versions, the first, with guitar and whistle/ violin, on Sibelius, is simple, but mechanical, since the notes are all automated from the sheet music, and the second played on my Yamaha Keyboard, which has more drums and the imperfections of my fingering.

While I did post the Sibelius version on Facebook in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor, who used to play the guitar to accompany my whistle, when he died almost a year ago, I never finished the project or posted the tune to Spotify. The dream is reminding me of this unfinished project.

The Saver

 I dreamt that my pre-teen (as he was once) neighbour, Garret, came over to my garden to kick football. He would try to score a goal and I would save. He shot magnificently and I saved magnificently, diving gracefully and catching the ball in mid air.

His father, Emmet, was incredulous; he did not believe his son could kick so well, or need to transfer to a real soccer park to develop his skill.

More importantly, in that dream world, I could get nobody to discuss with me what energy the ball must contain as it travelled through the air; what energy was in Garret's kick and how; what percentage of the kick's energy was transferred to the ball; what percentage of the ball's energy would be lost between the kick and the save; how my leaping energy was generated; how all this energy was brought back to zero as I lay on the ground with the ball in my arms.

The dream reached its conclusion with a sudden image of the crucified Jesus, not in a hanging pose, but a leaping pose, as He stretched out to save (the ball). Most striking in His dark figure were the crescent-moon shaped whites of His eyes under the black pupil-iris balls of His eyes, (with a hint of green through the irises).

The dream undoubtedly rises out of my pondering on a tentative book in my head, titled "Mathness," which questíons some mad math theories, sch as non-computable numbers, and a number-line divided into a continuum of multiple Infinities of points. (A line can't divide into points, only segments, and conclusions drawn from this false basis must be suspect).

The Rubber Building Block

 I dreamt I was back in my childhood home in Phibsboro', but it had elements of the Mukuru slums of Nairobi.

I dreamt the people had made a rubber building block. This was like a rubber pillow, made with a hard rubber external surface, but packed with desiccated rubbish. Basically, you got a rubber container, packed it tight with chopped-up rubbish, and attached the rubber lid, then sealed it with a blow-torch or something like that. It seemed to be a way of turning rubbish into building material.

You could build a wall with these rubber bricks, sealing the wall with a blow-torch or glue.

I was in the kitchen of our house. This is a galley kitchen. It is the back part of the passage that leads from the front door to the back door. There is a passage about three feet wide in between cabinets lining the wall on each side (cooker and cabinets on one side and kitchen sink and cabinets on the other).

Now, I was receiving information about this wonderful rubber block invention from people standing blocking the kitchen door, who appeared to be Polish immigrants, babbling in their own tongue, but obviously thinking it would be good if I accepted, in some way, the value of their invention. Homeless, they hoped to build houses for themselves with this cheap invention.

My father was at the back door, trying to bring his bicycle through the house. The bicycle shed was in the back yard, so, we had to bring our bicycles through the house. They might be parked outside the front during the day, but, for security, they had to be brought into the back at night.

"Go back into the dining room out of my way," said father. But my way was blocked by these people. I could not move.

My father got angry. He had to get to work, and his way was blocked by me. He did not seem to appreciate that I was stuck where I was by him and the Polish people.

"Didn't I tell you to get out of the way!" he roared.

Driving and Parking

 Recently I have been dreaming about driving in traffic, probably because of a new focus in my waking hours on my Krunchie Cab project.

In one such dream, I was driving into town in a stream of traffic. I had arrived in town and wanted to park, but I was caught in the  stream of traffic and there was no place to park. I was in  town, but the stream of traffic would carry me through town and out of town, to God knows where.

Then I spotted an opportunity that suddenly presented itself: a broad footpath just beside me. I made an instant decision, indicated and pulled onto this broad footpath. There was just room for my little car here, in between a lamp post and a post box.

My wife and I got out of the car. We wanted to go walking along a lovely country lane that, in the dream, happened to be where Parnell Street is today, stretching from the O'Conell Street junction up to Capel Street. Of course, in reality today, this is a busy city street, crammed with traffic, but in the dream it was a country lane, bound on both sides by leafy hedges and trees. All we had to do was negotiate  our way on foot through the stream of traffic to get to the other side.

However, I hesitated. I looked back at the car. Was it all right where it was? Was it vulnerable to vandals or traffic wardens? I saw a man walking towards me who had been a colleague where I  worked 20 years ago.

"John," I said, "Do you think will my car be all right there."

"I am no expert on traffic matters," said John.

"I know," I said, "But I only want your opinion."

John looked at the car. It was well clear of the stream of traffic, and was no obstruction to anybody using the footpath.

"It looks fine  to me," he said.

But I still had doubts.

While I was looking, another car pulled out of the stream of traffic onto the footpath. But there was no room for it to pull clear of the traffic, and there it sat, half on the footpath and half in the way of the traffic. It caused the stream of traffic to bend and weave and blow angrily.

"Oh no," I thought, "Now the police will be called to solve the  traffic problem, and my car will be treated as a culprit the same as this car."

The dilemma remained unresolved.

I wake in the  morning to the sound of the radio, which we use as an alarm. Remarkably, in the news was a  report of a lobby group who were demanding that the law clamp down on people parking on footpaths.