It is said that people dream about their problems rather than the things that are going swimmingly. Jung, that most charming of psychoanalysts, illustrated this point by suggesting that a bridegroom will never dream about his new bride (unless he has cold feet, of course). This seems to be borne out in both of our dream-lives. Gwyn’s tend to feature a fairly constant level of effort and often involve moving house, or being put to work, or attending school again. The prevailing repetitiveness creates a sad atmosphere, which is thankfully soothed by the pleasant architectural and landscape detail provided. It made us wonder if anyone ever sings songs about how us mortals seem to be doomed to constantly dream about difficulty – as if having to try all the time while we are awake isn’t enough. It would be particularly apt for Layla to sing the blues about her dreams. Where Gwyn is sort of short-changed, Layla is more over-charged – night after night she is subjected to cinematic nasties as she sleeps. Her dreams are consistently over-blown horrors that she says are like watching movies. Maybe, once written down; such a dream could make a song. Maybe one in the Dolly Parton or Hank Williams/Luke the Drifter story-telling tradition – more bluegrass than big city blues, but roots yes sir.

It started off with me walking into Verona and seeing him sitting there (Warren the singer from Trinity Roots) (I had seen them play the night before) (is this his name or did I just make that up?). There were other boys around and stuff and there were other people there but I was not fazed. I just walked up and asked him if he would like to come to Point Chev with me (a place I like to walk). I think he just said yes and we walked out of Verona and down the street. And then we were at the reserve part of Point Chev Beach. We walked along the side of the reserve next to the fence sort of awkwardly talking about stuff but not really saying that much. And then we came to this point where we sat down with a tree behind us looking out through some other trees to the water. There were flowers in the grass. It was probably four o’clock in the afternoon and the sea looked really beautiful. Everything was really clear. I don’t know if it was particularly warm or anything. We were both wearing jackets. I distinctly remember dandelions in the grass. They were really yellow and I remember a slight breeze in the hair but the sea was really still. It was funny how we really didn’t have much to say to each other because we didn’t really know each other. But we kept talking. I think we started discussing how we weren’t talking, but not verbally - telepathically. We started talking through our minds. We weren’t touching each other. I don’t know if we had our eyes open or shut. But through our minds our shoulders started to touch. It wasn’t just me thinking it, it was a mutual thing. There was an intense sexual energy and it was comfortable. So then we started kissing telepathically… We were still sitting apart. It seemed to last for ages, the stroking and the kissing. We were totally clothed but in our minds we were mostly unclothed and having sex. Anyway, it was great sex. Bits of our clothes were off, on, askew, open, and on the grass and it lasted for a very long time and it was really blissful. It lasted right into the night. I think he had quite a hairy chest. Not really hairy and he was quite podgy around his stomach and had love handles and I liked them. Then it jumped to him having gone back to Wellington and we were still communicating, psychically chatting, I’m not sure what about – like what the weather was like or what we were doing and that. And then it was like I had interrupted his space without him really saying anything and I started giving him a blowjob. He was loving it. I was kissing him all over. He was really quiet. I knew he was enjoying it, but it was as if he had to be really quiet. Normally I’d hear noises. Sort of at the end he made some sort of noise and I realised that he was with his girlfriend in bed. She didn’t know what was going on and thought he was being a bit weird. He said to me you have to stop, I’ve got back with my girlfriend. I said Oh I didn’t know, and felt a bit bad. (The house they were in was the house I lived in in Dunedin with my ex-boyfriend – he walked from the bedroom to the living room to tell me about his girlfriend.) Then he proceeded to tell her about our psychic connection. So she was a bit funny about me but we stopped talking - no hard feelings. It would have been a bit wrong or risqué to continue. Then I went overseas travelling, maybe it was a few months later. I’d been travelling for a while and I am not sure where I was – it was some culture that didn’t speak our language with cobblestone streets. I was out late at night down a dark street and all of a sudden I found myself being gang raped. I remember the street being very wet like it had been raining and that the streetlights kept shining in my eyes, blinding me. I think there must have been about 12 of them and that they had slightly dark skin and big penises. I could really feel my body being dragged, and hot and cold sensations. I was there in the street for a while and then I was on the wooden floor of their gang pad that smelled like rubbish and was dusty. I was still being raped and was almost dead. I started to levitate out of my body to save myself from what was happening to me. I decided to try and speak to Warren otherwise I was going to be left for dead. I tried to send him a message as I looked down at myself being fucked over. He rang the Portuguese (?) police but they just thought he was some sort of mental person. As I was levitating there I conveniently noticed a dead policeman sitting slumped in the comer. I told Warren the number on his badge and described him. That policeman was missing so they went to where I described. But they were just as scary. Because I was pretty much dead, they wanted to knock me off – for killing a policeman and a tourist these guys would go down for a long time. I remember them trying to suffocate me in the ambulance. I was still watching from above, and zipping back into my body I struggled against them. Then I was in the hospital. They hadn’t killed me yet but they were still planning on it. I told Warren they were trying to kill me and he flew over with his girlfriend. He needed to get me out of the hospital to the New Zealand embassy, but it was just too far and too dodgy so we went to the American one. I was still almost dead. I don’t know whether it was in the embassy or the hospital that I was telling .him to tell the doctors I am not going to die and that it was sore in my stomach and if the doctors would look there they’d find what was wrong with me. I had to try to get out of the country to get some proper medical attention so they asked Warren if I knew anyone in America who would have enough money to help me. I said I didn’t know anyone except Viggo Mortensen (I had worked on Lord of the Rings) and they laughed and didn’t believe me but he said he would help so it ended with Viggo and Warren and his girlfriend standing around my bed. I wasn’t conscious yet. I could see what was happening and had to still talk through Warren. There was a cactus next to my bed. It had three prongs, two shorter than the others, and in its pot in the dirt, there was a something red, a jewelly thing.