Chapter 8: Red Light, Green Light
‘Jesus, Cyn, I think you have to quit the DreamAds pilot.’ Daniel was looking at his phone. I was curious as to what he was viewing. Not curious enough, though, to put down my brush.
One of my favourite places to paint was on the walls provided by the squatters’ movement in Dublin. Dublin, a city centre of monumental buildings among the squalor. Rents were out of control, literally. Emigration was the main option for those wanting to set up in their own homes, which was horrible and sad for thousands of families. If you were networked among anarchist groups though and could live with the stress of it, there was a rent-free option.
Several large houses around the city were currently in the hands of squatters, including the Thomas Street one I was painting in. It was typical of Dublin to have abandoned, derelict buildings right in the heart of the city, adjacent even to popular tourist attractions such as the Guinness Brewery, which was so close to me that I could smell the hops. These forlorn buildings were surely worth millions, yet they had stood unused for years.
Well, this one was busy now. Four floors of rooms. About a dozen semi-permanent residents and no end of visitors. Groups like the Irish Anarchist Network used the occupied house for their organising meetings and the front room was cluttered with posters, leaflets, magazines and stickers.
On the whole, the squatters were good for the premises. Leaks were fixed. Faulty and dangerous wiring was restored to good order. Someone had even put in new windowpanes on the second floor, to replace the jagged ones created by stone-throwing kids. My contribution, however, would probably be less welcome by the owners, which was a mural on the wall opposite the large window of the front room.
I would have liked to have used the opportunity of such a large canvass to create something new. When I tentatively started sketching on the dirty, white paint, however, I felt an immoveable resistance to creative thought. Suppose you are at a swimming pool. You have changed and put your clothes in a locker. You have gathered your red hair under a turquoise cap. You have walked along the damp plastic floor to the showers and dowsed yourself. You now stand at the edge of the pool. You know you like to swim. You have the pool to yourself and the water is still. Sunlight scatters on the blue surface like a thousand glittering silver petals on the path ahead of a bride. There is nothing to stop you moving through those petals. Nothing except that the inner impulse to do so has gone. And even should someone rush up and shove you into the water. Even then, all you’d do is stand up and slowly make your way back out. That’s how impossible it was for me to reach into myself for new artistic ideas.
There was still pleasure to be had by engaging with the technical challenges of painting, even if the painting was simply a larger version of one of my earlier works. From the floor of the room rose grass and flowers, thick enough to provide a pillow for the bodyless head of an attractive woman who was in repose with orchid petals on her eyes. I was still working on those petals when Ciara looked in. They were a member of Food Not Bombs and I’d met them at an earlier squat in Phibsboro. Soft spoken and warm hearted, Ciara was someone I was glad to see.
‘Onion soup is ready upstairs,’ they said. And then, ‘Oh, Cyn, that’s beautiful.’ Ciara came fully into the room to get a proper look. They were wearing jeans and a handmade jumper of cream and green stripes, frayed at the ends of the arms. Their hair was shorter than I remembered from the other squat, more boyish than their previous shoulder-length curls.
I was hungry; the finishing touches of the mural could wait. So I straightened my back and wiped my brush.
‘She looks so relaxed. It’s perfect. It creates a very welcoming atmosphere.’
‘Thank you, Ciara. That’s exactly why I chose this one.’ The room was often a busy one and even when there was no one in it, the flyers and information posters and leaflets on the walls and tables detracted from the sense that this was a place you might enjoy living in. Hopefully, my mural would help create a different quality to the room from that of urgent protest, a calm and happy one.
Upstairs, the soup was world-class. Really. Ciara explained how they’d caramelised the onions for over two hours. I very much wanted a second serving but felt it wouldn’t be fair on the residents and other visitors. So having thanked Ciara repeatedly and cleaned my bowl and spoon, I went over to Daniel.
‘What were you looking at? Downstairs.’
‘Oh, this. You have to see this.’ He studied his phone, tapped it and handed it over with YouTube open. The clip was from a US news channel.
The share price of DreamAds fell by thirteen percent this morning following fears that the new technology has met with unexpected difficulties in the pilot program, which is currently underway in Ireland. According to a whistleblower whose leaked company documents have been widely shared, the subconscious of all the participants in the program rejected the planned lucid dreams.
In overcoming the mental force that broke up the implanted dreams, claims the whistleblower, the company exceeded the terms of its license from the Irish Health Products Regulatory Authority and the DreamAds hood is not safe for use.
Neo, the Edge, CEO and owner of DreamAds released a statement denying these claims. He said, “DreamAds hoods use exactly the same technology as the Explorer caps that millions of people use every single day without harm. This is the same kind of groundless scaremongering that took place with the introduction of mobile phones and self-driving cars. We’re confident that not only is this technology safe, but there will also be considerable benefits to society when everyone is able to enjoy the dream experiences of their choosing.”
I shuddered. Then swapped from YouTube to Daniel’s browser app and quickly found the whistleblower’s document. It really was all over the web on dozens of servers and was being shared widely. Scrolling through it, I came to an email exchange that caused me to sit down – on Daniel’s lap, there being only two chairs in the tiny kitchen – and read them carefully.
from:
Elon The Edge
<elon@dreamads.com>
to:
Glenda O’Connor
<glendoc@dreamads.com>
Okay, so there’s resistance to the dreams. That’s what we expected. It makes sense that the unconscious rejects our inputs. You call this a sub-personality. I call it a virus. It’s your job to suppress the virus. Tear it apart or imprison it. Treat it like a cancer. Stop it from spreading. And no, I don’t want a quick call. There isn’t enough time in the day for all the quick calls people want from me. You need to figure this out fast and you can have whatever staff you need. End of.
from:
Glenda O’Connor
<glendoc@dreamads.com>
to:
Elon The Edge
<elon@dreamads.com>
I understand your instructions and am standing by to attempt to isolate and contain the virus. For the record, this is unknown territory and may result to harmful psychological consequences for the volunteers. Do you still wish me to go ahead?
from:
Elon The Edge
<elon@dreamads.com>
to:
Glenda O’Connor
<glendoc@dreamads.com>
Of course I do. They all signed a waiver. And you should have heard them at the Helix. They are as excited as we are about this technology. Who wouldn’t be? We’re giving them the power to dream lucidly about anything they desire!
Passing the phone to Daniel, I closed my eyes and leaned back into the reassuring strength of his body.
‘You can stop now, Cyn. The courts can’t force you to take risks with your mind. This documentation is damning.’
‘Can I though? My unconscious twin is trapped, I can feel it. I’m emasculated until I go in there and save her.’
Daniel put his phone down and held me tight in his arms. ‘This is a good day all the same. This leak will put manners on Neo.’
‘Are you all right Cyn?’ asked Ciara. Although my eyes were closed I sensed that they had come close.
‘I’ve been damaged by DreamAds. They’ve cut me off from my libido.’
‘God, that’s awful. There’s a Reddit thread about DreamAds which I read on r slash irishanarchists. I didn’t realise you were caught up in it.’
‘Unfortunately,’ I sighed. Then I opened my eyes, picked up Daniel’s phone again, and found the Reddit app.
‘This one?’ I showed Ciara the screen.
‘I think so,’ they peered at it. ‘I don’t have my glasses.’
The thread was a month old, so had been posted before the DreamAds pilot had begun. All the early comments were universally horrified at the prospect that our dreams would be invaded by adverts. The thread had been revived only three days ago by an exchange that I focused on.
UnderstandingMoonlight · 3d ·
I’m surprised to see anarchists being so hostile to this technology. It’s more freedom than humanity has ever had before. It’s literally a dream come true! Once the glitches have been ironed out we’ll be able to lucid dream every night about whatever we want. We’ll be spending every night in a world of complete freedom.
Oblam94 Mod · 3d ·
Hello. There’s a clue in the company name to what their real agenda is. Since when has Neo ever invested in a technology without an eye on making billions down the road? This is about monetizing our dreams. And worse. He’s a fan of right-wing dictators and I can totally see him trying to promote their talking points in our sleep.
UnderstandingMoonlight · 3d ·
I see Neo differently. As a kind of easy rider, thinking about the possibilities and unconstrained by people telling him it can’t be done. There’s an anarchist vibe about him. He despises governments. And seriously, can’t you see how amazing it will be to have any experience we want while we sleep?
Amazinks_860 · 3d ·
I dread it’s gonna be like those free-to-download games with paid in-game content. You get two minutes into the ride of your life and bleh, “subscriber only”, or “pay to unlock” pops up. 😜
Oblam94 Mod · 1 hr. ago ·
A three-day-old account with no history comes here to tell us Neo is an anarchist and we should welcome his plans to invade our dreams? Very sus. Neo opposes governments *from the right* not the left. He’s on record as despising democracy. He is only against governments because he doesn’t want to pay tax or adhere to environmental and human rights legislation. And I’ve edited this comment today in the light of the new leaks. They prove he doesn’t care what happens to those testing DreamAds. As far as he’s concerned, they could be lobotomised so long as it helps him make money.
‘I like Oblam ninety-four. Do I know them? They are a mod.’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Daniel, taking the phone off me to look.
‘You do, it’s Mikela.’ Caira had gone back to stirring their soup.
I’d met Mikela at the Phibsboro squat. A thirty-ish-year-old occupational therapist, originally from Poland, at first sight she wasn’t obviously an anarchist. Dressed in a blouse, smart trousers and with her light hair fixed tightly back in a bun, she projected the character of a professional. Once you got talking to her though, you really felt the conviction of her ideals. She was one of those people who questioned everything and doubted everyone. It made me uncomfortable, talking to her, as she never agreed with anything I said. I felt judged by her. Still, she was a good person to have on your side and I hoped I’d run into her soon to tell her about my experiences on the DreamAds pilot and get her advice.
‘Are you finished your mural, Cyn?’ asked Daniel. ‘Conal gave me tickets for The North tonight.’
‘I could still play with it for hours yet, but I’m happy to pack up. We can come back Wednesday maybe?’
‘Cool.’
Coming home on the 122 bus I felt drowsy and put my head on Daniel’s shoulder; he shifted, to make me more comfortable and put his arm around me. In that warm and protected microverse my thoughts drifted to my unconscious twin and on impulse I asked her: do you need me to put on the DreamAds hood tonight? Answer green if yes, red if no.
My eyes fastened on an advertisement, green background, white writing. That certainly felt like an answer. There were plenty of reds in view that I could have noticed: a badge on a coat shoulder; a fire safety notice; someone’s Insomnia coffee cup; the letters Fjäll Räven Kanken on a student’s backpack; outside the window, car lights and traffic lights.
Again. The WhatsApp logo on Daniel’s phone.
Again. This time I tried to give my focus a steer towards another colour. Like a piece of Lego slotting into place, however, I found myself looking at an olive jacket. Close enough. Even though the DreamAds leak might have given me the option of walking away from the programme, I was going to put on the hood again.
And for the first time, I found that I was looking forward to it. What more worthwhile mission was there than that of liberating your own libido?