Imagine Apple if Steve Jobs never returned. Imagine it had continued to allow poor-quality machines with the Mac OS onboard to be sold. Imagine if it had continued to dilute its brand and its influence, allowing everything good about the Mac to ebb away while a hardcore of fans cried foul. Without…
I was wandering around sainsbury’s with my mum. I had a guitar on me, which I wasn’t playing, just tapping idly. We went home to meet my brother. We were then sitting in my room;my brother asks for payment for something. As I count out the money we start to argue. I am short on money.
I recieved two packages in the mail from an “admirer”. However, these changed throughout the dream. At first, one present was a bottle of wine (I could tell by the way it was wrapped) and the second was in a long tube that I didn’t get to open before the presents changed. When I sat up and started to open the presents (for some reason when I recieved them I was lying down on the floor), the presents had changed. Now they both looked about A6 size, and were wrapped in those tough plastic envelopes that no-one can open. I cut them open. In one of the envelopes, without any padding, was a rectangular clock, made up of 12 cube porcelain flowers, yellow-green and iridescent; the clock face was not on these flowers, but encased, very very tiny, in a little side rectangle with a purple backing, and had glass covering it. The ticking was loud, but not obnoxious. One of the square flowers (they were called “wallflowers”- a “wallflower clock” (this information was not presented to me within the package, but I could hear the voice of the sender explaining what the presents were to me, in my head)- had broken, and was hanging off by a string. The voice explained that this was the original state of the clock, and the original owner (his ex-girlfriend) had meant to get the clock repaired, but never did. In the next envelope (I was now opening this in the corridor outside the bathroom) was a drawing of a dog which was supposed to be Pluto, but did not look anything like Pluto. Next to me in the hallway was a friend from school (who I was not very close to), who was looking through my brother’s box of CDs and my games, as if they were her own, and recalling her memories about them while I opened the packages.
I was in a hairdressing salon, standing on the upper sort of half-floor, looking down at the ground floor reception area (the stairs are there, but I don’t use them). Quite a posh salon; rich wood floors, metal. Two girls walk in; one bossy but rather dumb, one does not say anything. The bossy girl starts out reasonable, and merely asks if a hairdresser (trissy? trinny? tammy?) is in, because her hair is “about to break”, though it looks perfectly fine, just very long (down to waist level). The hairdresser the girl asks for is not in. Next I see I am combing her hair- her hair is wet- but not to cut, it seems, I am combing it down a parting. The parting is like mine (my real-life hair, not my dream hair)- on the left and not straight, but zig-zagged (because I don’t have the patience to sort it out). Looking at the parting, I become the girl in the chair. Looking in the mirror, my reflection is not mine, but not too different from my own. The parting is in the same place, as are the thin new hairs that grow around it, but my hair is brown. Apparently the ends had been dyed blue as well, but a bright, almost glowing, cyan-teal. A lot of the dye had washed out by this stage but some remained in bright patches. As my hair passed my face, it left patches of blue on my cheeks and lips. The consistency of this blue was like oil paint, or icing. (I am not the hairdresser anymore; she has disappeared.)
I visited my secondary school, only to find that the floor of the art corridor had been replaced with a plush, quilted red velvet, with gold studs like you would find on posh chairs; there was a group of chairs at the back of the corridor, by the art drawers, which were tall-backed, decked in beige leather, with no armrests, like dinner table chairs. The first set of stairs that lead to the art rooms had disappeared, but the mid-way landing was still there, as was the second set of stairs (which forms a sort of ceiling for the art corridor as it backs up on itself like a spiral). I started jumping on the quilted velvet floor, which was surprisingly bouncy.
Disappearing stairs seems to be a recurring theme in my dreams. I can’t remember whether in those dreams I just noticed that the stairs were gone or if I wanted to use them, but in the first dream I remember this happening in, I was stuck on a seemingly floating landing that had no staircase down and I was looking down at the people walking below me.