Dreams, and balloons

I've had a lot of dreams recently. In one of them, we went on a school trip to a field where Derren Brown was sat at a table. He was telling fortunes and also there was a raffle, and I bought a raffle ticket because I was scared to have my fortune told but I wanted to meet Derren Brown.




Some amount of time seemed to pass, in a chunk of darkness or perhaps just sleeping without thought, and suddenly I was in my school art block shed with my friend Emily. She told me that I should go to Derren Brown and talk about my problem, because he convinced her to have an abortion and it was good advice (know that neither of us are actually pregnant). So I did, and I told Derren Brown something and he talked back in now what seems very vague and unfitting, but it made sense at the time because dreams are a different way of thinking.



He talked about a character called Jasper in Shakespere's play, Heartbeats (which isn't real as far as I'm aware).



I also dreamt that a lot of people in my class were doing NaNoWriMo, and we were all writing out novels in a lesson, instructed by my bitchy form tutor Miss Bates. She checked all of our writing, and told me to join two sentences together (I remember the word "Faithfully" was the first word of the second). I told her no, that wouldn't have made sense and both her and the school caretaker, who I've never spoken to in my life, yelled at me.



Then I dreamt I was babysitting Prue-Carla and Max, and I left the house and went to a shopping centre for some silly, important reason and was scared when they came back that their parents would be mad at me and they were.







I wanted to write something just now but I didn't know what. Looking round my bedroom for inspiration, I saw this on my computer. It is from the vinyl of Beirut's Flying Club Cup CD.

And then I started to write, with a pen and paper for real, and now I'm going to type the rest straight on to here. We'll see what happens.
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It wasn't even twelve hours ago that all of this kicked off, was it, Clementine?

Only you could have triggered me to do something like this, and only you did. This is not what I am. I've only ever been this choirboy haircut, the Decathalon sweatshirts my mother buys me, oversized glasses and pockets full of stones.

I'm not sure I'll know how to be anything else.

I saw the meaning of life when I was walking home from school yesterday and it wasn't forty-two but it was a big, big balloon. I watched from my window as they blew it up, bigger and bigger, like a volcano ready to erupt or an egg waiting to hatch, or a pimple about to pop.

So I'll admit, it wasn't ideal. If I could have my say, you and I would float up to the moon with a red balloon, not this one. It's grey and has the name of a big car company across it, and it upsets me that it won't be quite as symbollic, the fact that we're going to defy society, Clementine, you and I.

All night I watched from my window. I've written some plans in the back of my Chemistry excercise book and assembled a bag containing some bits of food from the kitchen, my iPod docking station because I'm going to need to charge it eventually, somewhere, a couple of salads I bought from the Late Shop and money. £71.85 to be exact.

I'm practical, see, not some kid with a stupid plan to catch a bus somewhere to run away. It's a lot of money. I've packed enough clothes that I can carry and I have a penknife, so that I can protect you. Perhaps it'll be a good tool when we're flying our balloon.

I packed my mobile phone, only because I'm going to throw it off board when we're floating over the ocean.

It was 5am when my alarm went off first, and it's 5:25 now. The sleep sand from my eyes is unsticking and it's an hour and a half before I'd normally have to start the day. Next door you're asleep in your bed and if I don't do something, you'll wake up soon too, and straighten out your pretty red hair, apply the tones to your eyes that make you look severe and grumpy, eat those Ryvita biscuits you always have for breakfast, then head to your school.

If I don't go soon, they'll fly away somewhere on our balloon and we'll be stuck here for another thousand years but I don't know how. Perhaps I'll take a handful of pebbles from the garden and throw them at your window, will that wake you up? I don't know how to tell you that we're going to get away, you and I. At first you're going to think you're worried about your parents and friends, and other strings tying us down to the ground, I know and I try to understand that for you, Clementine, but it's hard.

You won't mind when we're up in the air, I promise.

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I think there's more but I stopped, because I have to be up tomorrow and it's past midnight and I didn't realise.

Goodnight xx