In the first dream, I’m staying in a hotel or apartment that has structural damage. That’s okay — the accommodation is only temporary, however hot water is overflowing from someone’s bath and is creating the likelihood of a collapse of the ceiling up above. I’m leaving that day, and remember just in time to tell the old man who will be staying there about the danger, and to watch out for it. And then I’ve driving over the hill in a mini van, to meet a vet to pay for our accommodation. My parents are there, and we are in Zimbabwe. The vet gives us each three papers to sign, so that we can pay for the short term accommodation, as we head back home. It says to write down your address, and I do not have this information.
“Um, where do I live?” — I asked my father, who is busy signing his form to the left of me.
“Yes,” he said.
“Where do I live?” — I said.
“yes,” he sighed.
“Where do I live?” I asked again.
He echoed, “live.”
A helicopter filled with an American TV news crew is trying to fly to the heavens, but instead crashes on take-off and falls to the bottom of the ocean.
Nobody seeks to rescue them, however the helicopter is fitted with submarine like qualities, like a pressurised internal compartment. The crew can continue their reporting for at least 24 hours before they inevitably die.
I’m there with them, and yet I’m not. I must be participating from the safety of an office above ground. I start to tease them, for they’re all having hallucinations because of the lack of air. I say, “Look! There’s a big tarantula on your tea mug!” There isn’t one, but the newswoman temporarily freaks out, as if there were.
Day-to-day office politics ensues, and gradually the lights start to become dark, as everybody’s breathing becomes very shallow.
A voice comes over the intercom to signal the end: “As usual this episode will be televised for our viewers’ pleasure.”