David Clapper

I’m looking at a semi-arid landscape. I think to myself that it resembles the Negev, although the red, rocky outcrops are interspersed with luxuriant green shrubbery. This is what the desert looks like after it has just rained and is in bloom. Suddenly I know that this is a dream. I am lucid.

I feel calm. I decide to walk into the desert landscape in order engage with it when a gap of misty darkness appears at my feet, between me and the desert landscape. I fall into the gap. It’s not what I wanted but I decide, since I don’t seem to have much choice anyway, to make the most of what’s happening to me. I call out “I want to experience the Void!”

Now I’m falling through the darkness, which doesn’t feel at all threatening. I am facing upwards. I am reminded of the scene in the documentary titled “Painting Doors” and the scene where Clare Johnson is falling through the Void. I notice what look like purple vapour trails extending from my hands and feet. I gain speed as I fall, and the vapour trails develop into long, thick, billowing, beautiful purple clouds. Now I’m falling incredibly fast. It feels like a thrilling fairground ride. I think a loud, “Wheeee!!!” and then think about how if this dream lasts much longer, I won’t be able to remember any of it.

Suddenly I start slowing down, my trip through the Void is coming to an end. I land safely and gently on the ground. As I do so, I hear a disembodied male voice announce that my union card has been printed. He calls out a series of letters and numbers (for some reason I know that these are capital letters, AT5C… or something) but decide to not try to memorise them. I look around and I’m in a town that I don’t recognise. To judge from the clothing everyone is wearing I decide I must be in 17th or 18th century Europe. I am standing near a bridge and I see what looks like a military band marching over the bridge. I decide to interact with them. I walk over to them—they are walking very fast—and I am somehow drawn to a young woman. The whole band is radiating joy, but she seems particularly joyous. I ask her who she is. She tells me that her name is “Nabama” and that in 200 years they will build a monument (or a museum?) in memory of her. I wake up.

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