Dreamlets

I was at a party in a forest, which consisted of two massive warehouse-type spaces connected by a massive log. It looked like this but darker and more red-tinged:


Between the logs there were some small greenhouse things which housed some open bars and a few dodgy characters as well as a wall of LCD televisions. And when I entered the greenhouse, my brain was suddenly (and involuntarily) turned into something akin to this:


Not just common or garden CCTV, but instead, screens showing what key people in a certain acquaintance of mine's life were up to. I could tell you who he or she is but for the 1.5 per cent chance that he or she finds this - highly unlikely, for certain.

Whilst the person is someone who's, well, around, it's not someone I've given that much thought to of recent. Nor do I know that much about these constructs I was apparently intent on following. I'm nothing like the once-guilty Mr. George:



What does this mean? That my nighttime brain works on random selection from a normal distribution? That I am in fact more inclined towards this person than I first thought? That I am as imprisonable as another non-guilty citizen of the world?

The night before that, I had a dream that myself and a bunch of people were singing karaoke in the street. One of them broke their shoe and another got stuck up a tree.

Off to sleep I totter, I'll be back soon doubtless with more Tree Tales for your receptive ears.

Quiero...

Taken from here, it appears that I've got a lot of things to do before I can say "I won".

Namely, they look like this:

(1) DJ a London clubnight (if you haven't heard my Spotify playlist yet, clicky clicky here
(2) Indulge in a spot of artist promo - preferably music to my liking. See here for further indicators of whether you're likely to come under that umbrella. I'm talking writing your press release, masterminding your campaigns, offering you life coaching and much more.
(3) Starting up a label, singles club-stylee. This is dependent on finding someone with more money than myself but less brains. Probably unlikely to find such a person on here...
(4) Find someone who owns a massive manor house with a garden where I can organise a miniature-Latitude. Preferably, the person would be single, male and beautiful.

Now I'm not being funny (mate) but I'm pretty well equipped to do all of these things; the only thing holding me back is a lack of capital. I've got a Law degree for frick's sake, no need to employ corporate suits at an expense. I know a fair amount of people so am at a headstart there. AND I've got pretty much free reign on a very successful music website. I'm not clued up on artist management (granted, that phrase probably has little application) and I don't appear to know anyone willing to invest in my schemes (yet), but hell, maybe I should go get a loan? Is this crazy talk?

Advise me. E-mail me! Talk to me.

nat.musos AT googlemail.com

The Gordon Ramsay woman

It's sunny, around 3pm. I'm on my way to the pub (presumably) via the altogether futile (or rather single-purposed) Canons Park station. It'll get me to a more exciting place, that's the general ethos.

This time, however, it entertains me in and of itself. It houses an exciting character, who for now, I'll moniker 'Gladys'. Gladys hesitates upon approaching the ticket barrier, but in a way I've never seen a person hesitate; she has a deep antagonism about her while at the same time, desperately trying to contain her oozing fervour.

I bypass her in my desperate quest for the train, the route out, and she escapes my headspace temporarily. Until, that is, she comes clambering up the stairs. I can hear a faint humming, unsure if there are words or merely emotions, which become increasingly lucid/fuzzy as she gets closer to me. She is dressed like a board-game detective, all conspicuously inconspicuous. A mac is wearing her.

She takes chick steps until she reaches the bench, to guide her two-minute wait for the next train. A Man is also sat on the bench, which potentially houses a total six humans. Gladys sits in Man's miniature radius, and he feigns 'unflinched'; it's not that he 'doesn't care' that she's on him, more that he 'doesn't know'.

I become a nameless spectator, watching the A Man and Gladys premiere. Gladys, the protagonist, begins a song from the movie's original score. The song is simply astounding. It's a new paradigm for songwriting - the lone melody somehow creates the feeling of counterpoint, tierce de picardie upon tierce de picardie. Of course this is all an illusion.

The lyrics are what matters. They're a tale, like a liveblog. They whoosh and whizz past me in a frenzy, so much so that I can't quite recall their exact composition. The geographical setting is the clearest feature - Gladys is watching the London Marathon; she's at the end line, cheering. She's impassioned.

Gordon Ramsay is coming up: "Gordon, come on Gordon!/I'll say a little prayer for you" she sings.

And then the train comes... I'll never know who won.