Who the fuck is Luther Blissett?

‘The Party’ (backdated as it preceded the creation of this blog)

leave a comment »

Of course it is tempting once we fully wake up to go back and edit or delete mad-sounding things that we wrote while emerging from sleep, but I hope you will not judge me harshly or be alarmed if I share what I wrote in my hypnopompic haze.

So I had a dream and woke up and typed this.

There’s a party going on in our dreams and it is real (as real as the most convincing of realities).

It’s the best party in the world, or at least it makes you want to declare it as such from the moment you leave. Everyone is there and they seem very drunk, but even though they slur their words* they can still speak and understand each other. Perhaps some are not drunk but everyone is high either on some kind of drug or at least on sexual desire.

There are more women than men, or that’s how it seemed when I arrived but there are men too. The party is indoors and outdoors, although at the end it is only indoors, and at the very end it is in a small room and the entrances and exits reduce in number, ultimately to zero.

It is a staff party for people who work for two businesses which have merged. You need an invitation but if you are drunk enough you can just wonder in. The security will warn you that you have to leave and they will even try to manhandle you to the exit, but if you passionately assert that first you must look for your shoes (and then you spend enough time looking) they will forget that you weren’t invited and you will be free to mingle and even take part in an orgy. When you remember that you were not invited, perhaps because someone comments on this, you may become conscious of the delicacy of your acceptance there, whence you might accidentally encourage your own rejection. The key to remaining at the party is to feel welcome.

Most of the people there have a great technical knowledge of some of the innovations of the business, although they can not readily say what others might use these innovations for.

Some of the people at the party have backpacks with lids which are made from hard plastic material that fits together from diagonally sliding sections, and which open out to form keyboards …either to type on or to make music.

Some have painted bodies.

There are more shoes than feet, but almost none of the shoes fitted me when I was there, so the surplus was very welcome. I found some shoes so that I could comfortably walk to the wet grass outside where I sat on a hill with a group of people of approximately my own age or perhaps a little younger. They were dressed in the manner both of goths and of jazz club goers. I sat with one girl who simply and without fuss encouraged me to caress her as I talked to her. Under her black lacy (goth) dress she was either tatooed or painted (I think painted) on her back, which I discovered when other party-goers (her friends) started to touch her too. A fit young black man (who also had a painted body) lifted her dress up her back to reveal her painted skin. From his mannerisms and the way he looked at me I thought he was probably gay, but still he touched this young woman sexually as an act of pleasure-giving and friendship.

The last thing I remember before I left (before I woke up into unconsciousness of the party / consciousness of my non-dreaming reality) was being in a tall narrow room. The other party-goers were elsewhere and I could see no obvious exit which might have allowed me to rejoin them. In the room there was only one other person: A young Asian man to whom I turned and said in wonderment ‘I’m not dreaming am I. This is real isn’t it’.** He replied ‘no it’s a dreeeeeeeeeam’, overtly assuring me that I was dreaming though somehow conveying undertones of a message that I was not.

I had first found myself at the party after dreaming that my mother’s friend was driving my mother and I somewhere and on the way had lost control of the car through driving at excessive speed and through paying insufficient attention to the road …because she was either drunk or very tired. Veering off the carriageway, she had to regain control on wet grass while steering a path between large trees, a collision with which would have been either fatal or at least devastating to our health. The car did not slow down, but rather we simply found ourselves in a stationary position after a period of sleep.

My mother had gone or perhaps been killed but really is was as if we were all floating in some ‘limbo’ state. I held my mother’s friend by the shoulders and while crying implored her to consider that she could so easily could have killed us and that she had a history of near-misses, and that each of these should have served as a warning (a wake-up call). I told her sternly and with self-assured authority that she should not drive after drinking or when she was too tired from work. Before I could be sure if she understood me, I was at the party, looking for my shoes.

After much trying on and rejecting of shoes I eventually found some that were a little too big but which at least looked appealing. At first I was mindful that taking the wrong shoes would be bad, partly because surely someone else would later come looking for them and be unable to find them, and partly because lots of the shoes looked awful. After some time though I got the feeling that there were considerably more shoes than people, or that perhaps some of the people were never coming back for their shoes anyway. I eventually put on a pair that fitted well enough and seemed to suit me so that I could walk over to join some people in the large party area and talk to them about the party. Two girls sat either side of me, flanked further along by other girls and men.

Some of the men seemed a little too concerned with their appearance, which they showed by being somewhat aloof and by investing considerable effort in appearing indifferent to the judgements of those around them. The effect of this was supposed to be that the other party-goers would be impressed enough to associate the dandies’ confident behaviour with their style of dress, thereby confirming it as ‘stylish’. I felt though that I could see through this and so I felt that I knew their apparent lack of concern with being judged was really an act being put on to compensate for their over-concern with just this very thing.

I asked the girl two people to my left if she could tell me in whose honour the party was being thrown. She explained that it was for people who worked for a company, the name of which I can no longer recall; I remember only that it was made from two sets of initials, each of which consisted of two or three letters. …I had the feeling that the new initials were simply the former company names combined with one or two letters omitted to form the new name.

I asked her what the company did and with impressive fluency she described a technical process involving computers and possibly smart phones, although I don’t think she actually used the word ‘computer’ or uttered the phrase ‘smart phone’. I was left to infer that these things were involved as her words snaked around something which contained the promise of explanatory value but which itself required more explanation than it provided. After listening to her, I asked for an example of something for which people might practically use the process she had just described, and she appeared to find it difficult to come up with anything. I then volunteered a suggestion of a plausible application, and both she and some of the other party-goers were very approving of my idea and suddenly regarded me with considerable respect. At around this point the security seemed to accept my presence at the party and made no further efforts to eject me.

The girl to my immediate left began to writhe sexually and either allowed or encouraged me to touch her whole body. At the party, barriers to sexual behaviour still exist just as they do in our day to day realities, although at the party they are more relaxed and it is somehow obvious what is and is not acceptable and desired. After finding myself outside on a damp warm grassy slope with this girl and other party-goers, I began to remark how surprised I was that the party was real and not a dream. In that moment suddenly I was in the small room with a tall ceiling (or perhaps no ceiling at all) with only one other person present (the young Asian man). I began to question whether I would be happier if I discovered that the party was real or that it was not. Before coming to a decision I was ‘helped’ back to my normal waking consciousness by this man.

I think at the party there are slightly different laws of thought, one of which is that ‘better and worse’ and ‘real and unreal’ need not be held as opposed states; That they may be true simultaneously without any contradiction, not as any kind of trick or sinister doublethink, but rather as a kind of philosophical seeing through the mist. I believe this may be why I woke up before really coming to a decision about whether I wanted to be awake; By allowing the feeling that I had to choose, I had made a choice. Now I am awake and no longer free to love and touch and be touched and kiss as I please. There is a kind of safety and pleasant sense of order now, and also the sense of something lost …of diminished fun.

I am a little tired from having woken up very early, but I do not think I will go back to sleep now. The day is upon me, and I am glad of this, and there is always coffee.

*at first I typed ‘slur their worlds’ and for a moment considered leaving this error, thinking that perhaps it conveyed an essence closer to the heart of the experience

**Neither in English nor I suppose in any other language is there a punctuation mark to indicate a phrase which is perfectly between a statement and a question. If there were it might be called a semi-question-mark, and I would have used it when quoting my own words to this young Asian man.


Written by rubbernipple

May 27, 2011 at 1:40 pm

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: