The Artist – a section from my first ever book written in 1971/3 – Reality Dreams

I started writing this book way back in 1971. I called it Reality Dreams because that is what it is. At the time I was carried away with the concept in my head. I thought I was writing something revolutionary that combined art, poetry, philosophy and prose into what could be considered as ‘a novel’. I felt nothing like it had ever been done before. It was totally new.

The publishers did not share my enthusiasm.

I later came to realise that what I had created was a bit of a sixties psychedelic hotch-potch. But I love it.

It has been fun visiting with my young self, hanging out and reacquainting myself with the nascent ideas, bold and fearless writings, naïve thinking and idealistic stance. It was refreshing. I was certainly reaching beyond my grasp.

I’m not sure how accessible it is to any outside reader.  The writing is patchy and the concept flawed, It is more of a patchwork quilt than a novel. I do not even any longer subscribe to some of the philosophy, but it is of its time. It is a sixties book even though it was written in the early seventies.

I am so delighted to be publishing it for myself. It holds a great deal of nostalgia for me. It was written in 4 parts. These are parts 1 and 2.

This is a section from near the end – a bit of philosophy. (nb. – I created the concept of polyverses well before Hawking!)

Not stretching, not reaching, just existing. The universe was not just a single entity in the flux of space. Time plays tricks creating infinite variety within the one. Time was lengthened and shortened in an endless series of dimensions. They all coexisted at the same point in space. In one dimension a hundred years was a fleeting second. It was because of these distortions of time that they were all separated within the same space. There was an infinite variety of infinite space and time.

Each dimension represented an empty canvas for the artist’s hand to decorate.

The artist lived and sketched for pleasure and not for gain or recognition. She created a picture that would endure using the tools stored in her memory and the skills in her metaphorical hands. It was her life’s work to create. That’s what she lived for. Creation was a necessity. Life would be unthinkable with the possibility of masterly change and the striving towards an elusive perfection.

Mind travelled the ether at will, seizing nothing and moulding it into shape and form. Worlds and whole universes were formed instantly. She had perfected her craft.

Mind always chose a few particular worlds to concentrate on populating. For some obscure reason all these intelligent beings seemed to believe the whole universe was created for their benefit. It was amusing. Mind found it quite endearing. She could not imagine why they would seek to idolise her and worship her when they were all of the same material – an illusion – a dream – a dream within a dream within a dream. 

Mind moved between her worlds enjoying the way things evolved. There was excitement at the way the creations matured and progressed, but as with all things the excitement dimmed. She grew bored and moved on to seek new inspiration. Sometimes the creatures destroyed the very thing they lived off and laid waste to all the rest of the creation – that upset her. She could not comprehend why they would do such a thing. Occasionally, in a fit of pique, she would sweep them aside and create a replacement. Some imperfections in her creations grew into irritations with their pompous arrogance and became exceedingly annoying. They simply did not develop as she had hoped.

But an artist is rarely satisfied. No canvas is ever completed – merely abandoned.

When it became too depressing she usually moved on quickly but occasionally she would introduce a new element into the theme to jazz things up and pour life into a stale or rancid construction.

Back through countless dimensions mind’s past endeavours spun and buzzed and changed as they progressed through their respective ages. Occasionally she would flick through these exhibitions of her work as one might a picture book. She always noted, and often enjoyed, the subtle changes that had occurred as her basic plans were developing into new and wondrous forms. Sometimes there were great changes to the changing aspects of her dreams that were enthralling and exciting. They never ceased to fill her with fresh inspiration. They often threw her into a fresh burst of activity and prevented any lapse into the apathy and boredom that she so often had to endure. For there were times when this existence felt completely pointless.

Mind, like everybody else, had favourites among her works of art that she would often return to. With these she would delight in throwing in a new detail and take pleasure in the confusion and chaos that her visits invariably left in their wake. Occasionally she would imagine herself up an avatar so that she could join in and participate in her creation first-hand. She would wander and live among the crowds and taste the life her thoughts had created. Then there were the multitude of other pieces that she had worked on that left her less interested, that she tended to abandon to wend their way through their existence to either degenerate or mature into something better.

In this latest creation she felt great empathy. She felt it was special. She had brought so many different elements together to create something unique. Yet she had created it without too much thought. It had been one of those spontaneous moments where consciousness did not intrude and the creativity flowed effortlessly. She had frustratedly abandoned her previous creation, which had not gone well, and this new one had come about in some kind of reflex – totally on the rebound. Somehow the lack of conscious thought, coupled with swift, deft unrestrained strokes, seemed to have resulted in a masterpiece. She could feel the electricity run through her mental faculties. It left her feeling wondrously happy.