I find myself in a dream-version of Blackpool, grounded with my micro-flight—a compact, mini-plane that I’ve been flying. Now grounded, I’m in a field, sharing the space with a burly man I barely know. He seems to know everything about the plane, though, and starts applying ointment to its rear surfaces. The plane’s fabric has the texture of soft leather, and as he works, massaging cream into the rear exhaust area, it strikes me as oddly sensual for him. The exhaust opening even resembles the puckered flesh of an animals backside, disturbingly lifelike. I look for a secluded backstreet to take off unnoticed. My search takes me to the promenade, where water rushes like a stream on the other side of the road. Nearby, I go into a rough-looking pub. Inside, the space has been cleared of chairs, the floor dingy and black, but illuminated by colorful, 1980s-style disco lights. At the center of the room, five blonde children, aged around four to six, perform synchronized danc...