My own unique, original, madness

At work, I can't remember what my function is. I've been told I'm
staying on later as there's x y and z to accomplish. Another lad too is
staying but he's not around. It's some kind of really old
factory/wharehouse. Low ceilings, dark, small windows.

Like the kind of where
they make rope on a rope walk.

Except where I'm working is no rope factory and the rooms, partitions,
floor-spaces are not long nor quite like that.

The manager leads me to a large table or collection of. There sat atop is
a pile of white A4 copier paper. Some of it has child like drawings in
fluorescent pink and its accompanying colours. Those you may fairly
expect to occupy such drawings, like a single wobbly pale green line
drawn using a cheap colouring pencil, crossed by a line of likewise
quality but blue instead.

The manager explains something or other. This other lad, who's not
around, he's working till 8pm all next week, and he's to work on that
computer over there, processing this or that something or other I don't
remember now.

I'm to do that until he arrives, then he's to do it, and I'm to do
something even vaguer than my memories of what the lad who's not around
is supposed to do. The manager leaves. He's told me I'm to stay on
this evening. He's told me the other lad is working until 8pm this
week, from tomorrow.

I pause for a few moments, wondering when I am to work til, as if I am
waiting for the chance to find the manager again, to inquire, to be
over. Only then do I walk off to go look for him.

In the lobby he's just gone through the first double-lock security
doors. A woman with mousy tightly curled hair is just about to go
through and I keep asking her to grab the managers attention for me.
Apparently though she's deaf. Another woman with long straight hair,
which is taking on a hint of grey, speaks silently, and I see the
manager looking, the other woman looking, and all their mouths moving up
and down and the sound from them is absent.

Even from the woman who is on this side of the locked doors, an absence
of sound. The second security door opens and they all leave, leaving me
to wander back out of the lobby.

I walk along a corridor and sit on a chair. I'm in the hospital now as
is evident by the pale yellow crocheted blankets covering the legs of
almost half the people waiting on the plastic chairs - young or old.
Obviously, the chairs are either a red-brick sort of colour, or a blue
colour of similar saturation and value.

I think the popularity of the pale yellow crocheted blankets is curious,
and then notice that of the people who have not a pale yellow crocheted
blanket upon their legs, instead have a pale yellow crocheted cardigan,
or hat, or socks.

I look out the window and into the room adjoining the corridor, to my
left. There are animated nurses sat at tables nattering to each other.

I get up and proceed further down the corridor and through the double
doors. Back into the factory now, or are we? Not quite. In the middle of
the room is one of the mad-patients, and he finds something very funny.
He's sat on two chairs which in turn are on top of a table. He
purposely leans back and falls flat on his back on the floor which I
find really funny. Someone tells me that this is not funny, he may have
cracked his skull on the concrete floor. I see their point.

Anyway, I walk past him, and through the next set of doors, to the yard.
It's not a particularly sunny day, not bright shining sunlight, just a
grey evening - if I'm to reason that a grey evening follows on from
staying on at work after everyone else has left. Which, while I reason
so now, you should forget that link, as I've introduced it after the

On the walls are two dog sculptures, about the size of an Alsatian, but
without the fury hair. They are aggressive looking dogs, perhaps cast in
bronze, or perhaps stone. I don't exactly remember which, though I'm
leaning toward the latter, as it would be more in keeping with the
surroundings. The outside of the buildings are old, red brick in the
laying pattern they don't use these days unless rebuilding or emulating
old buildings. There are wooden trade entrance doors or those for
loading - just the type of doors you won't ever see on a right-minded
house unless it's a barn conversion or something.

A little further ahead of me I recall a person. All of a sudden the dog
sculptures turn a bright cobalt blue. The colour begins of course in
their tails and proceeds to their heads where upon it reaching, they
spring to life and one of them attacks the person ahead of me.

I decide to intervene and talk to the dog, who might even have spoken
back to me, but I can't be sure about that. Maybe it was a purely
mental communication, maybe not. Anyhow, the dog stops the attack and
changes colours again, this time to colours more suitable for a doggy.
White with brown patches. This occurs just before both dogs leap back
upon their plinths and resume their more decorative nature - as

I head back inside after some pangs of guilt about not working and
wishing to attempt to find out what it is I'm supposed to be actually
doing. Back through the room where the patient fell off his chairs and
table, I'm grinning. Not only have I seen a patient do something really
stupid, but I've seen two sculptures of dogs spring to life from stone
while turning bright blue.

I enter the next room and there is a circle of patients sat around
talking with a doctor. One of them is talking about when he will be well
enough to leave the hospital. I go up to him and start ranting
"You'll never leave this place because you're stark f##king raving
mad!". As I say this I see one of the people sat there, in a most laid
back attitude with a grin upon his face, is one of the lads I went to
college with to study A-level art all those years ago.

He grins and says "You've got your own madness haven't you? Your own
++original++ madness!" - which I feel the need to confirm the truth of,
but also, to demonstrate that it, my own original madness, I am quite at
ease with. And so as to make clear to the other patients, to
differentiate between myself and the
them-who-respond-badly-to-their-madness, I proceed to narrate the story
of the two blue dogs upon the wall.

Unfortunately just as I am about to get to the mad part, where the dogs
turn blue, I hear my alarm and something in my mind awakens me despite
my wish to complete my narration within the dream, saying there's all
this stuff that you _want_ to do today. So inevitably I get up, still
wanting to finish the telling of the story and discover what happened


"My own unique, original, madness"

A recount of a dream from this morning

Journal entry - 11:25 Monday 15 February 2010

DISCLAIMER: The opinions and attitudes of James W. Morris as expressed here in the past may or may not accurately reflect the opinions and attitudes of James W. Morris at present, moreover, they may never have.


this page last updated:29th April 2013 (C) 2003 - 2017 James W. Morris

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