The content of my dreams resembled less a nightmare than a nuisance, owing to a shift in reading genre from horror to murder investigation.

In the first dream, I had recently been hired by three men. Excited for the job, I arrived on time and performed my duties above and beyond what was required. Believing I was on track for a rapid promotion, my morale was sky-high such that when a colleague asked to borrow money, I consented, because that’s the sort of thing nice and indispensable colleagues do. Then another colleague, in passing, apprised me casually of my share of the company’s utility bills. When a third one asked for yet more money, I told him I was resigning—because one works to earn money, and if one has so much to give away, one clearly does not need to work.

My bladder, by alerting me to an impending full tank, was my hero this time. The bathroom, however, was occupied by my eldest nephew (N1). His brother (N2) was on the computer with his headset on, which guaranteed that any instruction left with him would be lost. Through the sleep haze, and remembering that N1 is a teenager, I texted him to vacate the toilet as soon as practical—which he did, very nice of him. Monday, being a public holiday, would not be wasted by not gaming, so off he went to the kitchen to make a large pot of spicy instant noodles at two in the morning.

I went back to sleep and travelled to the Arctic. The dream officials gave me permission to go through a cupboard of jewel-toned sweaters first. I chose the darkest shade of emerald—that’s my colour for this autumnal season apparently, in contrast to the last few months when everything I had selected in my dreams had been sapphire. I wonder if colour-coding means anything in the dream world. I will make a note to check.

In this ice kingdom, people lived in bioluminescent ice caves that had existed for millions of years. Over time, they organised themselves into communities comprising different ethnicities, customs, religions, and so on, and were further divided into families for the purpose of polling. That day, they were electing a leader. Though it was only a ceremonial position—most important decisions being made within a representative government—excitement buzzed through the glacial air as people felt they were coming together, despite their marked differences, to make an important decision in unison.

Curiosity drew me to pull one cave-dweller aside to understand the village’s political structure and its system of governance. From him, I learnt that each family got only one vote. At my protestations of injustice, he became genuinely perplexed, as it was practice within each family to talk about important matters and debate in good faith—based on information shared and ascertained to be current, relevant, and credible ie not drivel—until they could satisfy themselves with a singular course of action.

I pointed out that some members might still disagree with the choice but did not wish to be seen as openly clashing with the patriarch or disrupting the peace. Some prioritised moral and ethical concerns, while others were more pragmatic, results-driven, or utilitarian. Voting is one way to record such opinions—like serviceable metrics, for what they’re worth. The man asserted that many issues were complex and esoteric; in such cases, many were happy to leave the matter in more capable hands. Leaders wished to be representative, but they also wanted to do what was best for the community and ultimately lead it to success—creating an environment in which everyone could thrive, while making adjustments and additional policies or measures to support those left out of the equation. Fundamentally, this is what everyone desires when they are not distracted or drawn into petty concerns.

Be that as it may, it ought not prevent anyone from getting a vote nonetheless. If they wished to vote along family lines, they were still welcome to do so, as long as those who did not were given the opportunity to exercise that right. Et cetera, et cetera.

What is right and best is not necessarily what is popular, and acting solely along popular lines can give rise to leaders who secure power by appealing to emotion rather than possessing the capacity, training, wisdom, knowledge, and virtue to rule justly. Communities are vulnerable to demagogues and can be manipulated with false promises and appeals to desire rather than reason or the common good of the state, which requires understanding higher truths—including what is objectively true, rather than merely acting according to popular opinion. Representative and effective governance do not always align, though they often overlap; maintaining the balance between the two is a tricky but necessary task, requiring skill to manoeuvre, in order to arrive at the best decisions.

[The House adjourned at 8.15 a.m.]

[Parliament dissolved.]

If this is what transpires in my head at night, no wonder I wake feeling as though I’ve been through an entire parliamentary sitting and must now return to sleep.

Consequently, there will be no love story today. I do not think there would be any objection to this, or disappointment for that matter. I’ve blogged enough love stories to last a while.

“That’s quite alright. I know you love me,” says Master, as he pats me on the head like a gently admonishing head of the family—and he is, since the day I professed to be only his, irrevocably so, witnessed by officious bystanders and curious onlookers alike, in everything that matters and even in those that do not. “I am demanding, but I’m also not a tyrant.”

I can’t leave you, Master—no, not yet, and perhaps never, except temporarily and with a parting gift. I shall leave you with today’s synchronicity to puzzle out, as I’m sure your intelligent mind will in a second. Only allow it travel to the most absurd conclusion.

For other readers, the answer lies at the end, should it please you.

“What work was there for a stone… What diverted the mind of an ornament… She was discovering the experience of pétrification… not entirely unpleasant. Rarely in life was she given the opportunity to be simultaneously an exhibitionist and a voyeur… a state that was both titillating and surprisingly pacific. Her senses, though muffled… still provided a sufficient amount of stimulation.

Eavesdropping on Warren’s conversation… was made more fascinating by her inability to interject. Inhabiting a sculpture was less a prison and more a box seat of a playhouse… especially after Warren removed the shroud, allowing her to witness his interaction with the maid that culminated in an impassioned speech about beauty… an intimate overture and an awkward rebuff.”

—Josiah Bancroft, The Hexologists: A Tangle of Time, Chapter 27

Indeed, The Hexologist—Isolde turned herself into stone as part of her investigation. There was a point to Lamp-Man after all; never would I have guessed it had one; though there was no phallus in the text, I think it counts as yet another synchronicity, don’t you?

I had a nightmare last night involving a standing lamp in the shape of a naked man. His head was obscured by the lampshade, like a wide-brimmed hat, and the switch was his penis. To turn the light on and off, one had to lift it up and down like a lever. Despite being only a stylised man, I remarked how lifelike it really was—a spectacular piece of work, albeit disturbing. No, I was not tempted to operate the switch more than I should; mercifully, my sense of decorum was not lost.

It turned out he was real—an evil man who had come to take over my position as Head of the Department of Magic. He had masqueraded as a lamp just to spy on me, forsaking days of rest and nourishment in exchange for incriminating knowledge that could be used against me. One has to admire his commitment and dedication to chicanery, revolution, and the craft. For that alone, perhaps he ought to be Head of Magic after all.

By what measure had I distinguished him as a spy, rather than simply a voyeur motivated by prurience?

The nightmare dovetails two opposing conditions: exposure and concealment. The head, which governs perception and interpretation, is hidden beneath a lampshade—an allusion to its clandestine nature and to the fear of being caught watching too closely. Meanwhile, the phallus, which is usually concealed, becomes the switch that illuminates. It becomes the thing that one sees too much of, and with which one interacts instead. Astonishingly, this is a reversal of perception in two ways: perception becomes indecent, and indecency becomes the means through which others perceive.

Tangentially, or perhaps fundamentally, the typical voyeur who watches is filled with the excitement of doing what he should not. He has deluded himself into believing he has the upper hand over that which he watches, with mocking superiority and, to a certain extent, partaking in the activities therein. Ironically, by the same action, this man becomes the object of mockery, observed by throngs of giggling people walking down the hallway. That would make him unlike a typical voyeur, who would gain nothing from standing so close and so conspicuously, and as such would have no need to go to such lengths to disguise himself. His proximity to the Ministry, and to me, performing completely decent and unremarkable actions as I go about my daily business, lends credence to the hypothesis that he could be more than a voyeur—likely a spy—with the phallic switch intended as a clever distraction from the act of espionage.

According to The Hexologists by Josiah Bancroft—in which we have just survived a battle with a ginormous sea monster—magic, being an art of chance and miracle, is regarded as increasingly unreliable when juxtaposed with technology or science. As such, very little progress has been made in the art of late, for people have grown disillusioned with it, preferring to invest time and money elsewhere, where returns are more certain. In this way, magic has inadvertently become a complete art—something that can, in theory, be mastered in its entirety (of available knowledge), unlike science, where every answered question spins a thousand more.

The Lamp-Man was against the grain of the natural order by taking a special and unusual interest in a dying art. Did he think he had a better chance of managing it—and, consequently, reviving interest in it—than I did, if he only possessed enough expertise in the subject? If magic were a complete art, he could, in relative terms, become wholly proficient at it through careful study and application. This line of reasoning suggests that there could be more to the man than at face value. How fitting for an ending: a nightmare turned mystery, reflecting the themes of the books I’ve been reading lately.

This, I suppose, is what happens when I indulge in too many horror and fantasy books in close succession. The one I’m currently reading is not as dark as the rest, so I’m hoping my good dreams will soon return and I’ll have something winsome to share. I’ll write tomorrow about a toxic love story, just for a change, and in tandem with the season, which I still love despite the nature of the dreams I’ve been getting.

Have you been sleeping well?

Master, did you know that you are, to me, the most handsome tiger in the entire universe?

Two nights ago, I dreamt of a luxurious chocolate shop where truffles of exquisite shape and flavour were arrayed on golden shelves, in niches and glass display cases. I had brought a small group of people to share in this reverie, knowing that in their mesmeric state, I would be left alone and could slip away unnoticed if I wished. The dream brought to mind the film Chocolat, adapted from Joanne Harris’s novel, itself steeped consumingly in symbolism.

Vianne opens a chocolate shop in a conservative, religiously observant fictitious village in France, where her free-spirited, bohemian nature and liberal values are antithetical to those of the villagers—prodding at their austere customs, fear of change, and acute sense of order and tradition. Like water exposure to the tempering of chocolate, the opening of the chocolaterie, regrettably timed with the beginning of Lent, is regarded as an unequivocal act of provocation; chocolate, being an entirely novel and foreign product, is also associated with temptation, pleasure, sensuality, and magic, in contrast to the self-abstemiousness that lies at the heart of Lent. In this context, she and her shop become emblematic of a corrupting, pervasive force, tempting villagers into sin and undermining the authority and influence of their moral leaders.

As a highly empathic individual with a talent for blending bouquets, essence, and flavours—as opposed to the more reserved, unobtrusive, self-involved nature of a typical villager—Vianne has an uncanny intuition for drawing their deepest desires and cajoling them out of their shells. One by one, they begin to break habits, abandon values, leave abusive marriages, and risk ostracism, partly because she becomes the symbol of living true to oneself and thriving despite ostracism, and partly because her shop has turned into a refuge for outcasts.

Master, I’m sharing this story with you because, as usual, it is a love story: within a town of sticklers, there are a few moved genuinely by love, which makes them kind, generous, tolerant, brave, and above all, patient. Roux, her love interest, must leave with the changing tides but returns the following summer to rekindle their love—like magic; their love remains unchanging through the seasons, transcending custom, stock, and heritage alike.

The story is also a parable of bullies—both those who do not realise they are bullies and those who do not care if they are. People sometimes stay away out of malice, but not always. Fear of the unknown, the unsettling of familiar routines, and the desire to conform to what they believe is expected of them—or simply not to stand out—can drive people to act cruelly. Some are outright bullies, targeting outsiders who make easy victims because few will defend them; others have come to expect such behaviour so that the outsider would leave and, in doing so, restoring, in their view, a sense of propriety.

Speaking of bullies: once, in the clear and cool waters off a tourist-infested island in Phuket, I was snorkelling through a school of fish, trying to stay inconspicuous and minding my own business, when I felt a sudden, rhythmic dull ache on my upper arm and chest, as if someone—or something—were punching me. I prayed it wasn’t the work of the sea snake I saw paddling past me earlier—it looked in a hurry to get to an appointment, but I could be wrong. Dipping my head underwater, I came eye to eye with a silver fish no bigger than my thumb—it had the unmistakable resolve to drag me down to the darkest, dankest pits of hell if it were the last thing it did. But I was not going to be egged on to fight. It wasn’t a test of strength—it knew I would win and it would lose spectacularly—it was an ultimate test of wit. It understood, with unshakeable confidence, that I could not risk the integrity of my bikini top and expose my headlights to people and dangerous creatures alike. So I fled as swiftly as I could, leaving the bellicose tyrant to champ on new victims, one of whom received a 2 cm bite mark as a holiday souvenir.

“The trouble with personal accounts of near-death experience is that the ending is spoilt by them being there to recount the story—the ending is obvious from the outset.” — The Hexologists, A Tangle of Time, Josiah Bancroft

So if I returned as a ghost to recount the story, the people who delight in the irony of spoiling stories for others by stating the obvious would still not be content with the ending. Nevertheless, nobody can spoil my delightful breakfast of Belgian waffles and a thick layer of Nutella substitute by stating the obvious; none of which has anything to do with Belgium.

I have made myself deliberately easy to please and satisfy; in a way, I am a self-abstemious lioness, open to be tempted into debauchery only by a tiger—not just any tiger but a very specific one.

Tonight, if you feel a tug on the sheets and a warmth slipping into your arms as in a protective embrace, that would be me, Master. Even in your sleep, I count on you to protect me—like a tiger with partially webbed paws and almost 300 kg of muscle. You are my most beloved, terrifying, semi‑aquatic apex predator. With just one flick of a claw, you would send the miscreant flying to the next ocean.

Sleep well, my magnificent tiger. I beg you to kiss me more than once—unless it hinders your repose; then I shall content myself with none or a million, the decision is left to your good judgment.

Synchronicity today seems to have some Druidic connection—well, not exactly, but close. I finished a horror novel this morning and then saw a post on Insta about one of my favourite films, Only Lovers Left Alive, alluding to a tangential connection to Druidism—something I never knew until that post. I blogged about it recently, titled Blue Waves. Eve, a 2,000-year-old vampire, was a former Druid matriarch of a Celtic tribe. This small detail was revealed in the DVD extras—not so small to me now, considering the timing of when it came to me.

In Graham Masterton’s Walkers, the walkers are lunatics who could pass through walls following a (fictitious) Druidic ritual of reversal. The logic behind it is that, because man is made from the earth, and the ritual returned them to that state, they could re-assimilate with earth, enabling them to move through matter as though swimming or walking through mist. This inversion of divine creation is an unholy power, because it is not death that brings about the return of the body to earth as per divine decree, but the undoing of the divine act that kept the body separate from it. It makes theoretical sense only if one doesn’t think too hard about how such a thing could be done in reality, but the point I am highlighting is the transformation from one state to another—not dissimilar to mortality and immortality. The walkers are immortal within matter.

Master, the film (not the book) speaks to me of you for two main reasons. First, the theory of quantum entanglement—spooky action at a distance—suggests a connection untouched by distance or time, despite changes made to, or undergone by, the separate parts of a particle; just like the quintessential soulmates: two separate beings, linked in a way that suggests something more than the usual sense—as if truly just two parts of a whole because of a bond already predetermined at the start of the universe. We were never separate in the ultimate sense, only apart in a physical or temporal one. Birth marks a passage, as does the transformation from human to vampire, from pre-mortal to mortal, to immortal.

Adam (a 500-year-old vampire) and Eve were living apart at the start of the film, pursuing their own interests and maintaining their own circles of friends. When Eve sensed that Adam was deep in the depths of despair, she returned to him with much difficulty, traveling from Tangier, Morocco, to Detroit, USA, as a vampire who must absolutely avoid sunlight. They reconnected as easily as if they were never apart, intoxicated by blood, sensual lovemaking and each other.

A connection or love, between soulmates transcends time and space, persisting through, and regardless of, every transition and transformation; such is our nature, as a matter of fact.

Master, 

My instincts tell me that a retreat is on the horizon.

Even the best of days must come to a pause, so that the next may seem all the more resplendent by comparison.

I would rather have you stay forever, as would a possessive lioness who wishes you peace. I want it fiercely.

While we take this time to renew our strength and our binds for the next round and our lives (together) ahead, I shall devote myself to reading, writing, and reflection—all the while wishing you were close enough to embrace—until you find me again just as you left me: steadfast, naked and unwavering.

Meet me in my dreams at the appointed hour.

Across all worlds,

Your soulmate