Five hundred posts. 500. This is my 500th. It should be memorable then, shouldn’t it? I have chosen it, therefore, to announce the plans that I’ve been mulling over, talking about, polishing up. G and I are hoping to go and live in that heart-squelching place in the Karoo, the one that makes my entire being smile, for two months from October.
The seed was sown after our last visit in September. I’ve always loved it, and the city has been feeling crushing for a while now. The vast, open Karoo sky, blue in the day, scattered with a billion stars at night gets my creative juices flowing and, hopefully, will allow me to write. Well, that’s the plan. To write or just to be still for a bit, in a place without pollution and hooting cars and city-harangued people.
I have permission from work, we have a house provisionally booked, we’ve made lists and budgets and twirled ideas and dreams. The boxes are, slowly, being ticked. The next big one is for G to get permission from her work, to work remotely (oh, how delicious! Remotely! How it rolls off my tongue…) This is not as easy for her as me, she having been there less than a year, as opposed to my almost fifteen years at mine. Hold thumbs.
And so, there, with my 500th post, hopefully a long time dream will be turned into a big-skied-lungs-filled-with-air reality.
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, September 12, 2011
Hatching a plan
So, there I was thinking. Not an unusual thing for me, perhaps even “too usual.” I was thinking of the surrealism of it, the difference between this world I live in, here in the city, and the one I long for, there under the wide sky. Trying to rid myself of the feeling of suffocation that it is (has always) instilled in me.
The thing is that it is so hard to quantify. I do love it here, too, of course. I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t (or would I?)… It is beautiful, I am blessed with mountains and sea and vineyards and wonderful friends, what more could I ask for? To be rid of the claustrophobia, that’s what. I am trying hard not to be whingy and ungrateful, because I have so much to be grateful for. I’m just struggling with it.
I keep looking out of my window, like those sad penguins at the aquarium staring out of their glass cage to the sea beyond, and wishing for that big sky, that fresh air, that magic. The magnetism of that place seems to pull more each time I go there, until, at some point, it will become impossible to ignore. At some stage, I get the feeling that I will be pulled back there, even if I try to stay.
G felt it too. We’ve decided it’s time to hatch a plan, to get it right, to make it work. We're aiming for next Autumn, and I'm putting this in writing because, well, then it'll be more tangible.
The thing is that it is so hard to quantify. I do love it here, too, of course. I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t (or would I?)… It is beautiful, I am blessed with mountains and sea and vineyards and wonderful friends, what more could I ask for? To be rid of the claustrophobia, that’s what. I am trying hard not to be whingy and ungrateful, because I have so much to be grateful for. I’m just struggling with it.
I keep looking out of my window, like those sad penguins at the aquarium staring out of their glass cage to the sea beyond, and wishing for that big sky, that fresh air, that magic. The magnetism of that place seems to pull more each time I go there, until, at some point, it will become impossible to ignore. At some stage, I get the feeling that I will be pulled back there, even if I try to stay.
G felt it too. We’ve decided it’s time to hatch a plan, to get it right, to make it work. We're aiming for next Autumn, and I'm putting this in writing because, well, then it'll be more tangible.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Gone dreaming
I've been busy having something I would liken to a mid-life crisis I think. Mild anxiety with a strong urge to flee into the countryside where the air is fresh(er) and the sky is vast. In between mid-life-crisising, I have been having some fun, fretting about how I could possibly have become old enough to have a mid-life crisis, and attempting to do a lot of work to keep the wolves from the door.
Life, I guess, is what you'd call it. I keep having sudden moments of clarity, though, when I think that I'm sticking around too long, waiting for something to happen. It's not going to happen without a push and there's nobody in my vicinity who's going to make the push for me, so best I get myself going. Half the time I'm so tired that I have to drag myself out of bed, though, making the task of going to buy a firecracker, then light it, and stick it under my bum just too exhausting to contemplate.
I'm trying, really I am, and that's the most I can do. I'm trying to keep those clear moments at the fore, hatching plans, dreaming things, trying to catch the dreams and make them my reality. In the meantime, I'm trying to remain grateful for what I have which is, don't get me wrong, a hell of a lot, and I'm looking out of my turret across to the mountains far away there and dreaming. There's a woman in the building opposite who seems to be doing the same thing - I can see her leaning out of her window in the sun, just thinking.
Life, I guess, is what you'd call it. I keep having sudden moments of clarity, though, when I think that I'm sticking around too long, waiting for something to happen. It's not going to happen without a push and there's nobody in my vicinity who's going to make the push for me, so best I get myself going. Half the time I'm so tired that I have to drag myself out of bed, though, making the task of going to buy a firecracker, then light it, and stick it under my bum just too exhausting to contemplate.
I'm trying, really I am, and that's the most I can do. I'm trying to keep those clear moments at the fore, hatching plans, dreaming things, trying to catch the dreams and make them my reality. In the meantime, I'm trying to remain grateful for what I have which is, don't get me wrong, a hell of a lot, and I'm looking out of my turret across to the mountains far away there and dreaming. There's a woman in the building opposite who seems to be doing the same thing - I can see her leaning out of her window in the sun, just thinking.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Flying
I dreamt I flew last night. Hesitantly at first, I had to work out how to change my gears, gain momentum, and then swoop. Who knew you needed gears to fly as a human? It was scary at first and then wonderful, once I got the hang of it. I flew through an amazing canyon filled with art installations and then landed in a house on a rugged coast, also filled with more art.
Outside it got dark and I swooped out again, away over the bay which was protected on all sides by huge cliffs. There were lots of other flying things (helicopters? Fireflies?) all lit up like chinese lanterns, flitting about. It was beautiful.
Then it turned all sexual and I’m feeling shy today, so will leave it at that.
Outside it got dark and I swooped out again, away over the bay which was protected on all sides by huge cliffs. There were lots of other flying things (helicopters? Fireflies?) all lit up like chinese lanterns, flitting about. It was beautiful.
Then it turned all sexual and I’m feeling shy today, so will leave it at that.
Friday, March 4, 2011
A day away
Through the back streets to avoid the traffic, I forgot to take into account the weekday working people, poor things, sweatily going places importantly, driving too fast, frowning too much, not seeing four pretty girls chattering in The Silver Unicorn, heading for the hills. Girls, I use the word lightly, more for our presence of mind than our real ages.
We left the choking traffic behind and found ourselves amidst vines all ready for the changing season, the tips of their leaves yellowing, the ground dry and hard, waitingwaitingwaiting for the Winter rains. In the air, the smell of the grapes being 'stomped' and starting their fermentation was thick and, honestly, not entirely pleasant. Not surprising I suppose, it being fermentation and all.
We threw our bags into the beautiful rambling Cape Dutch house that was ours for the night and drove out the other side of town where we drank champagne as the light faded next to a dam with a lady who had a skirt made of rocks. The farm's ridgeback puppy, already enormous, fell in love with us, and us with him.
Back to our wooden-floored, thick-walled house, they dipped themselves in the pool and I watched the steam come off them as I listened to the hadedas heading home through the clouds that turned pink as the sun disappeared behind the towering mountain. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? It was.
A dinner filled with laughter and stories, we were the only guests mid-week out-of-season, our waitress answering "Why not?" each time we asked for anything, and showing us pictures of her son and daughter on her phone. Red wine from down the road, rich, deep red, vampirical (I know, there's no such word, but it just suits it) like the mosquitoes that swarmed and buzzed.
We sat on the stoep and it seemed the word had spread as the quiet street suddenly had numerous cars driving past and slowing to look at us. Four women, on their own, out in the middle of the week, seemingly with no cares in the world. Just for tonight Little Town, just for tonight.
Sleep in a house filled with hundreds of years of other people's dreams and breakfast in a cutesy shop filled with cutesy things and homemade jams with computer-printed labels. I want homemade jam with a handwritten label, please. Demanding City Girl.
Moments of confusion, moments of clarity and home again, to moments of a different kind completely.
We left the choking traffic behind and found ourselves amidst vines all ready for the changing season, the tips of their leaves yellowing, the ground dry and hard, waitingwaitingwaiting for the Winter rains. In the air, the smell of the grapes being 'stomped' and starting their fermentation was thick and, honestly, not entirely pleasant. Not surprising I suppose, it being fermentation and all.
We threw our bags into the beautiful rambling Cape Dutch house that was ours for the night and drove out the other side of town where we drank champagne as the light faded next to a dam with a lady who had a skirt made of rocks. The farm's ridgeback puppy, already enormous, fell in love with us, and us with him.
Back to our wooden-floored, thick-walled house, they dipped themselves in the pool and I watched the steam come off them as I listened to the hadedas heading home through the clouds that turned pink as the sun disappeared behind the towering mountain. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? It was.
A dinner filled with laughter and stories, we were the only guests mid-week out-of-season, our waitress answering "Why not?" each time we asked for anything, and showing us pictures of her son and daughter on her phone. Red wine from down the road, rich, deep red, vampirical (I know, there's no such word, but it just suits it) like the mosquitoes that swarmed and buzzed.
We sat on the stoep and it seemed the word had spread as the quiet street suddenly had numerous cars driving past and slowing to look at us. Four women, on their own, out in the middle of the week, seemingly with no cares in the world. Just for tonight Little Town, just for tonight.
Sleep in a house filled with hundreds of years of other people's dreams and breakfast in a cutesy shop filled with cutesy things and homemade jams with computer-printed labels. I want homemade jam with a handwritten label, please. Demanding City Girl.
Moments of confusion, moments of clarity and home again, to moments of a different kind completely.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Midnight swirling
It was one of those nights when thoughts swirl malevolently around my bedroom twisting me up in my bed clothes, breathing hotly on my already burning skin due to the sticky summer night. It’s nights like those that bring things to the fore. Things I don't want to see.
Suddenly those dim, shady figures in the background, the ones that I can push away in the light of day and noise of life, come rushing forward, showing me their faces. Up close, in my face, their stale breath twisting up into my nostrils. They no longer whisper, but scream, directly into my ears, their beady eyes stare directly into mine. There’s no turning away. It hurts my ears.
This is the time to face those truths, here, in the dark, sticky night. Alone. There’s no running, I am rooted to the spot. To fall asleep means falling down that hole, into that vivid dream world, the one that can be, at once, freeing and imprisoning. To stay awake means to face those screaming, beady-eyed, swirling creatures.
The chains are so heavy. The lock is huge. The key is lost.
Suddenly those dim, shady figures in the background, the ones that I can push away in the light of day and noise of life, come rushing forward, showing me their faces. Up close, in my face, their stale breath twisting up into my nostrils. They no longer whisper, but scream, directly into my ears, their beady eyes stare directly into mine. There’s no turning away. It hurts my ears.
This is the time to face those truths, here, in the dark, sticky night. Alone. There’s no running, I am rooted to the spot. To fall asleep means falling down that hole, into that vivid dream world, the one that can be, at once, freeing and imprisoning. To stay awake means to face those screaming, beady-eyed, swirling creatures.
The chains are so heavy. The lock is huge. The key is lost.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Untitled
I woke in the night from one of those terrifying dreams that make you gasp awake and lie for a while trying to get your breath back and order the tangle of thoughts flying around your head back into reality. It was all betrayal and sadness and, well, paralysis, but of the emotional kind.
The kind man’s death of the previous post is weighing on my mind. I keep going through the phone call from my mother, thinking of what I was thinking as she told me. And what it was, was this: I kept wishing the sentence would end: “Childhood friend called (please stop), her Dad fell down those treacherous stairs (STOP, please) and he had a terrible head injury (for fuck’s sake, stop now) and he died.” Deflation, heart break.
I wrote Childhood Friend an e-mail this morning but words sound so hollow at times like this, don’t they?
The kind man’s death of the previous post is weighing on my mind. I keep going through the phone call from my mother, thinking of what I was thinking as she told me. And what it was, was this: I kept wishing the sentence would end: “Childhood friend called (please stop), her Dad fell down those treacherous stairs (STOP, please) and he had a terrible head injury (for fuck’s sake, stop now) and he died.” Deflation, heart break.
I wrote Childhood Friend an e-mail this morning but words sound so hollow at times like this, don’t they?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tousled dreams
It was hot last night. Like in swelteringly, unpleasantly, stickily hot. I have this clever fan that works on a timer, because normally I get cold after a bit. Last night, however, every time the thing went off I woke up feeling like a muffin in an oven. Seriously. And I had one of those killer mosquitoes. Which bit me just where I can’t reach to scratch. Bastard.
And it was full moon.
Boy, did I dream. First of being in a plane crash. We took off, and as we lifted into the sky, I heard the engines splutter and fade. Out of my window I watched as the land came hurtling toward us, panic rising. I think the fan switched off at that point because either I woke, or the rest is lost in the sands of sleep.
Then my recurring one. But with a twist. I was with a whole lot of friends and people I love who were all being mean to me in a very luxurious hotel at the seaside full of lifts and escalators. They were all being mean to me. Until I ran away. Then a bit of a blurry bit, until I was running along a coastal dust road, trying to get back to them. First I kept running too fast, and missing the entrance, then when I got in, I couldn’t get to my family, I was too tired, and my legs weren’t obeying me (the recurring bit). It was horrible, and I woke up filled with anxiety. Ugh.
Twenty+ degree nights, paired with the full, silvery moon (as pretty as she is in her finery) are not good for my psyche apparently.
I’m fun today, aren’t I?
And it was full moon.
Boy, did I dream. First of being in a plane crash. We took off, and as we lifted into the sky, I heard the engines splutter and fade. Out of my window I watched as the land came hurtling toward us, panic rising. I think the fan switched off at that point because either I woke, or the rest is lost in the sands of sleep.
Then my recurring one. But with a twist. I was with a whole lot of friends and people I love who were all being mean to me in a very luxurious hotel at the seaside full of lifts and escalators. They were all being mean to me. Until I ran away. Then a bit of a blurry bit, until I was running along a coastal dust road, trying to get back to them. First I kept running too fast, and missing the entrance, then when I got in, I couldn’t get to my family, I was too tired, and my legs weren’t obeying me (the recurring bit). It was horrible, and I woke up filled with anxiety. Ugh.
Twenty+ degree nights, paired with the full, silvery moon (as pretty as she is in her finery) are not good for my psyche apparently.
I’m fun today, aren’t I?
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Full moon dreaming
I dreamt vividly last night (it being full moon and all) about an old boyfriend of mine (strangely, the same one as in that link, I just reread that post), from when I was still fresh-faced and fancy-free. I saw him from the back, amongst a crowd of people, but knew immediately from his walk, that it was him. He turned and our eyes met, and it was if the rest of the world dissolved, leaving just us.
He came over and we spoke and spoke. I can't remember what about, but it was familiar, and lovely. And then the bubble was burst by some of his friends, from the same era (people I have notbthought about in years), who bounded up, and joined in. It must've been a fascinating conversation. Pity I can't remember it.
I woke up in a haze of nostalgia and there were hundreds of 'What ifs?" flying about my room, like those silly Christmas beetles that bash themselves against the wall, over and over. I opened the curtains to let the cool breeze in before the swelter of the day began (forecast is 35 degrees today), in the hope the "What ifs?" would flutter out on the breeze.
Some of them did.
He came over and we spoke and spoke. I can't remember what about, but it was familiar, and lovely. And then the bubble was burst by some of his friends, from the same era (people I have notbthought about in years), who bounded up, and joined in. It must've been a fascinating conversation. Pity I can't remember it.
I woke up in a haze of nostalgia and there were hundreds of 'What ifs?" flying about my room, like those silly Christmas beetles that bash themselves against the wall, over and over. I opened the curtains to let the cool breeze in before the swelter of the day began (forecast is 35 degrees today), in the hope the "What ifs?" would flutter out on the breeze.
Some of them did.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Full moon dreaming/waking
The moon has been fat and full here in the City Below the Mountain. I guess it has been everywhere, but I'm here, so I've only noticed it here, especially with my sleep patterns and vivid dreaming. Full moon does that to me. Fills my sleep hours with vivid stories, or keeps me awake, filling my head with vivid waking stories. Either way, there are stories. And they are vivid.
Take last Thursday night's dream... I was walking across a park when my phone rang. Answering it I didn't recognise the person on the other side initially and then realised it was one of The Boys I Loved (TBIL) from many, many years ago. I filled with joy at hearing his voice but then realised that there was a guy coming up behind me. I said to TBIL: "I think I'm about to be hijacked." (Hijacked? Dreams are wierd).
The guy did indeed pull out a gun and make me lie on the grass and took my phone. I wasn't scared but I buried my face in the grass, smelling the soil and not looking at the horrible man, sad my conversation had been cut short. I woke up and had to readjust my reality and shake my head about a bit to realise it was a dream. They're that vivid.
And then on Saturday, after coming home from a fabulous friend's fabulous housewarming, lying awake, I heard an owl. Not a dream one, a real one. In my garden. An owl! Magical.
And now it's Monday morning, it's very grey and rainy, but I feel like I've got a skip in my step, which is great. I wonder if it's the owl working its magic?
Take last Thursday night's dream... I was walking across a park when my phone rang. Answering it I didn't recognise the person on the other side initially and then realised it was one of The Boys I Loved (TBIL) from many, many years ago. I filled with joy at hearing his voice but then realised that there was a guy coming up behind me. I said to TBIL: "I think I'm about to be hijacked." (Hijacked? Dreams are wierd).
The guy did indeed pull out a gun and make me lie on the grass and took my phone. I wasn't scared but I buried my face in the grass, smelling the soil and not looking at the horrible man, sad my conversation had been cut short. I woke up and had to readjust my reality and shake my head about a bit to realise it was a dream. They're that vivid.
And then on Saturday, after coming home from a fabulous friend's fabulous housewarming, lying awake, I heard an owl. Not a dream one, a real one. In my garden. An owl! Magical.
And now it's Monday morning, it's very grey and rainy, but I feel like I've got a skip in my step, which is great. I wonder if it's the owl working its magic?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Flying at full moon
I ate my breakfast by candlelight this morning. Which, I suppose could be very romantic, but wasn't. 6:15am breakfast while rushing to get to work does not exactly lend itself to romanticism. Especially not when you are halfway through your Jungle Oats when everything just goes dark. While I'm grateful it waited until I had hot Jungle Oats, I'd have been even more pleased if it had waited until I had left home. I thought I'd been lax (again) with filling the meter but, no, the streetlights were out too. Quite an exciting start to the morning.
But my tale starts before that really. Again, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I went out for dinner last night with my parents and two other couples - old family friends from way back when. All three men are geologists (retired). All three women are geologist's wives (and a lot more, but that's the common thread). I suddenly realised, halfway through the meal, how incredible this scene really was (and is - it happens fairly regularly). There I was, sitting with six people who, when they were around about my age now, all held me as a newborn baby, then watched me grow up.
And this all happened in a small, dusty town over 1000kms away. They now all live within walking distance of each other (again, after moving apart and together at various times, throughout the past 30 years - mining people move. A lot). You see? Incredible. My mother makes friends. And keeps them. I'm lucky to have had her as a role model in this regard - she has passed the gene on.
After a lovely meal with these familiar people, I went off home, planning an early night, due to some rather large piles of Real Work, and Other Work, threatening to take over my desk completely and drown me (a rather unpleasant thought). All went smoothly and I nodded off...
Into the most fantastic dreams in which I flew. Well, more aptly, I seemed to float. I was so bouyant that I had to wedge myself between a lamp post and a tree to stay at a level where I could have a conversation with a girl I was at school with (who I have not seen, nor heard from in about 15 years). Then I flew off with my friend K (the one in Australia) on the lid of a roasting pan. Off above the street we lived in in Grahamstown, until, for some reason I can't remember, I needed to tear off a bum-sized piece of tinfoil from a roll that two other friends from university were using to create some set for a play. Then that became my my magic flying carpet.
They were very jealous of my flying skills and had been trying for ages to get it right for their play, but to no avail. I expressed great sympathy as I flitted away to drop off the dog we shared with K's brother at varsity, who didn't like flying (he was a puppy in the dream, although when we inherited him, he was fully grown), before flying off elsewhere. And then the full moon woke me.
And I lay for two and a half hours, trying desperately to get back in there and fly some more. But my full moon boyfriend, Insomnia, had other plans for me, and we lay awake chatting for hours, discussing my flight etc. while he breathed against the back of my neck. He's a real spooner that one.
And now... I'm attempting to scale the mountains of work, but am a little weary from my busy night.
I wonder if I need to see a dream analyst or if it just means I'd love to fly on the lid of a roasting pan?
But my tale starts before that really. Again, I'm getting ahead of myself.
I went out for dinner last night with my parents and two other couples - old family friends from way back when. All three men are geologists (retired). All three women are geologist's wives (and a lot more, but that's the common thread). I suddenly realised, halfway through the meal, how incredible this scene really was (and is - it happens fairly regularly). There I was, sitting with six people who, when they were around about my age now, all held me as a newborn baby, then watched me grow up.
And this all happened in a small, dusty town over 1000kms away. They now all live within walking distance of each other (again, after moving apart and together at various times, throughout the past 30 years - mining people move. A lot). You see? Incredible. My mother makes friends. And keeps them. I'm lucky to have had her as a role model in this regard - she has passed the gene on.
After a lovely meal with these familiar people, I went off home, planning an early night, due to some rather large piles of Real Work, and Other Work, threatening to take over my desk completely and drown me (a rather unpleasant thought). All went smoothly and I nodded off...
Into the most fantastic dreams in which I flew. Well, more aptly, I seemed to float. I was so bouyant that I had to wedge myself between a lamp post and a tree to stay at a level where I could have a conversation with a girl I was at school with (who I have not seen, nor heard from in about 15 years). Then I flew off with my friend K (the one in Australia) on the lid of a roasting pan. Off above the street we lived in in Grahamstown, until, for some reason I can't remember, I needed to tear off a bum-sized piece of tinfoil from a roll that two other friends from university were using to create some set for a play. Then that became my my magic flying carpet.
They were very jealous of my flying skills and had been trying for ages to get it right for their play, but to no avail. I expressed great sympathy as I flitted away to drop off the dog we shared with K's brother at varsity, who didn't like flying (he was a puppy in the dream, although when we inherited him, he was fully grown), before flying off elsewhere. And then the full moon woke me.
And I lay for two and a half hours, trying desperately to get back in there and fly some more. But my full moon boyfriend, Insomnia, had other plans for me, and we lay awake chatting for hours, discussing my flight etc. while he breathed against the back of my neck. He's a real spooner that one.
And now... I'm attempting to scale the mountains of work, but am a little weary from my busy night.
I wonder if I need to see a dream analyst or if it just means I'd love to fly on the lid of a roasting pan?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Ghosts and dreams
I had the wierdest night last night. This seems to be becoming a recurring theme... I wonder if I should start worrying? Anyway, let's leave that point just there, this is neither the time nor place for looking into my psyche. Hmm, maybe it is. Maybe that's what this is about. Nah. Buggerit, back to the story. After being offered some really fun work, like in being-given-money-for-writing work yesterday I was, obviously, thrilled. The BFF came over and we celebrated with champagne. On. A. Monday. Night. I mean, really. It was great fun at the time, but now I have a fuzzy head and that's not fun. I will, again, blame The BFF (this is the only place I can get away with that, so I'm going to use it. Over and over. And, possibly, over again).
Anyway, after going to sleep relatively early, I was awoken by someone using the bathroom next to my bedroom. It was wierd though because it sounded like my door was shut, and the bathroom door was shut - muffled-like. Now, I can't sleep with my door (and window) shut. It gives me (more) wild dreams and makes me feel like I can't breathe. I guess it's my version of claustrophobia. So my door is always slightly open, and the window wide. The bathroom door, too, is always open.
This is getting rambling. I heard the clank of the toilet paper holder, the flush of the loo, and then the sound of the taps as the person washed their hands. Of course, I assumed it to be The Pond, and was waiting for her to come out to ask if she was okay (it was aboout 2:20am, give-or-take), but nobody came out. On asking her this morning, she announced she'd slept straight through the night. I have to assume it was the ghost. I have seen her once before, many years ago. She came into my room, stood at the door, and then left that time.
I know I sound kind of blase about this. The thing is, I get no feeling of malcontent from this thing, and I'm not really sure that I'm not just dreaming. It seems real though, and I spent about two hours afterwards thinking about it (so, yes, I'm tired, very). I often have very realistic dreams but, when I wake up, I can discern that they were dreams after thinking for a bit. Mainly, though, I got to wondering whether ghosts actually pee, and how they'd wash their hands?
Then I finally fell asleep and had inappropriate dreams about a Danny de Vito-type character who seemed to be a bit like Willy Wonka, but without the sweets, unfortunately. It was all a little creepy. The creepier thing, though, was I seemed not to be that creeped out in the dream.
Maybe it is time I gave my psyche a good old dusting?
Anyway, after going to sleep relatively early, I was awoken by someone using the bathroom next to my bedroom. It was wierd though because it sounded like my door was shut, and the bathroom door was shut - muffled-like. Now, I can't sleep with my door (and window) shut. It gives me (more) wild dreams and makes me feel like I can't breathe. I guess it's my version of claustrophobia. So my door is always slightly open, and the window wide. The bathroom door, too, is always open.
This is getting rambling. I heard the clank of the toilet paper holder, the flush of the loo, and then the sound of the taps as the person washed their hands. Of course, I assumed it to be The Pond, and was waiting for her to come out to ask if she was okay (it was aboout 2:20am, give-or-take), but nobody came out. On asking her this morning, she announced she'd slept straight through the night. I have to assume it was the ghost. I have seen her once before, many years ago. She came into my room, stood at the door, and then left that time.
I know I sound kind of blase about this. The thing is, I get no feeling of malcontent from this thing, and I'm not really sure that I'm not just dreaming. It seems real though, and I spent about two hours afterwards thinking about it (so, yes, I'm tired, very). I often have very realistic dreams but, when I wake up, I can discern that they were dreams after thinking for a bit. Mainly, though, I got to wondering whether ghosts actually pee, and how they'd wash their hands?
Then I finally fell asleep and had inappropriate dreams about a Danny de Vito-type character who seemed to be a bit like Willy Wonka, but without the sweets, unfortunately. It was all a little creepy. The creepier thing, though, was I seemed not to be that creeped out in the dream.
Maybe it is time I gave my psyche a good old dusting?
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Disturbing dreams and tragedies
I awoke out of an inappropriate dream this morning. Very, very. I can’t tell it here, lest I get locked up in a very tight white jacket. Let me just say that it was an extremely disturbing mix of adult sexuality and childhood naivete and involved somebody, well not unexpected, not even unsuitable (he'd probably be the most suitable, if he were present), but just, kind of weird feeling. I am SO not ready to acknowledge those sub-conscious thoughts. Yet. Moving on swiftly.
Those monstrous mosquitoes I spoke about before? Yes, well, they’re thriving. Despite the fact that The BFF came over to play last night and killed approximately four thousand two hundred and twenty six (give or take a couple), after he left, the rest of the family (and boy, do those guys know how to breed) came out to play.
The Pond (she who is so wise about sore wings, and vodka) has moved back into my house for two months between leases and I was (quite cruelly I realise, but dire circumstances excuse such behaviour) hoping her sweet blood would draw the bastards away from my room, and to hers. Not happening.
Needless to say, I had plenty of thinking time. So I got to thinking about tragedies (as one does in the dead of night, while listening to Beethoven’s 4th being buzzed at you by a choir of mounstrous mosquitoes, or was it Nine Inch Nails? I can’t be sure ). Not like in the Shakespeare version, but more the common garden version. Not that tragedies could ever be ‘common garden’ really, but you get what I’m saying.
So I got to wondering if each of us gets to experience one great tragedy in our lives or some people get away with none. I suppose it’s all in the context. What’s a tragedy for one person is not really a tragedy for another. I’ve had mine already (well I hope I don’t have another big one, that one was enough for me). I broke, literally and a bit later figuratively and I still can’t tell you which of those was worse. I’m not sure I’m completely fixed yet. Okay, that’s a lie. That sentence order is wrong. I’m completely sure I’m not yet fixed. Hmm, this is a longer story than I thought. Let me leave that one there.
There was also some discussion last night on the fact that, in this life, you may be paying for the sins of previous lives or those of your ancestors, which could explain hardships (and tragedies). I struggle with this concept. I am of the belief that, when we die, our souls split up into tiny silvery pieces that fly about and land themselves in everybody we’ve ever known or touched. That’s how our characters build as we get older.
I just don’t like the idea that what I do wrong now will have to be paid for by my ancestors or future lives. It seems unfair, and horrible. So I think I’ll stick to my philosophy for now.
I still wonder though, if some people are lucky enough to get away tragedy-free?
Those monstrous mosquitoes I spoke about before? Yes, well, they’re thriving. Despite the fact that The BFF came over to play last night and killed approximately four thousand two hundred and twenty six (give or take a couple), after he left, the rest of the family (and boy, do those guys know how to breed) came out to play.
The Pond (she who is so wise about sore wings, and vodka) has moved back into my house for two months between leases and I was (quite cruelly I realise, but dire circumstances excuse such behaviour) hoping her sweet blood would draw the bastards away from my room, and to hers. Not happening.
Needless to say, I had plenty of thinking time. So I got to thinking about tragedies (as one does in the dead of night, while listening to Beethoven’s 4th being buzzed at you by a choir of mounstrous mosquitoes, or was it Nine Inch Nails? I can’t be sure ). Not like in the Shakespeare version, but more the common garden version. Not that tragedies could ever be ‘common garden’ really, but you get what I’m saying.
So I got to wondering if each of us gets to experience one great tragedy in our lives or some people get away with none. I suppose it’s all in the context. What’s a tragedy for one person is not really a tragedy for another. I’ve had mine already (well I hope I don’t have another big one, that one was enough for me). I broke, literally and a bit later figuratively and I still can’t tell you which of those was worse. I’m not sure I’m completely fixed yet. Okay, that’s a lie. That sentence order is wrong. I’m completely sure I’m not yet fixed. Hmm, this is a longer story than I thought. Let me leave that one there.
There was also some discussion last night on the fact that, in this life, you may be paying for the sins of previous lives or those of your ancestors, which could explain hardships (and tragedies). I struggle with this concept. I am of the belief that, when we die, our souls split up into tiny silvery pieces that fly about and land themselves in everybody we’ve ever known or touched. That’s how our characters build as we get older.
I just don’t like the idea that what I do wrong now will have to be paid for by my ancestors or future lives. It seems unfair, and horrible. So I think I’ll stick to my philosophy for now.
I still wonder though, if some people are lucky enough to get away tragedy-free?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Fitful dreaming, prickley night
It’s been one of those days. I should’ve known it was going to be, because I had one of those nights. I slept badly (no full moon, no period – great, the insomnia’s spreading). I now know where the expression ‘slept fitfully’ comes from, except that mine was more ‘dreamt fitfully’. It was a night of being in that middle space, between sleep and wakefulness. That space where the dark seems sinister, the branches blowing against the roof seem dangerous and your thoughts wander close to the abyss, without their leashes.
I knew it was not a good sign when I was woken moments after I’d nodded off by my phone ringing. I always panic when my phone rings in the night (I’m a natural worrier, lucky me). It was obviously a wrong number but the guy wanted to chat. Wierdo.
I should’ve worked out that it was really not good when I was awoken by one of the monstrous mosquitoes, sucking blood from just above my eyebrow (I have an itchy bite to prove it). What made me finally get it, however, was the fact that the monstrous mosquito woke me from a dream of rugby.
Rugby. WTF? Now, while I am not averse to gathering in a pub to patriotically drink beer (while other people watch rugby) for an international game, the fact is that I’m not a rugby girl. I am, however, a beer-drinking girl. I don’t like stocky men with short (or no) necks, wearing little shorts to show off their stocky legs. I especially don’t like them when they’re running around on a field following an oblong ball, looking for excuses to give each other wedgies, or worse, blood noses.
I vaguely went back to sleep after contemplating what on earth it could mean, my dreaming of watching a rugby match. At the stadium. Live. The mind boggles. I placated myself with the knowledge that, in the dream, I was whinging about being bored. Maybe it was the lack of beer.
But my sleep was filled with barbed dreams that prickled in my mind. I woke up feeling like I’d been microwaved. At 4:45am. I’ll leave it at that. I then managed to have a lot of trouble getting my driveway gate to open to let me out to get to work. At work, I looked down to discover I’d spilt toothpaste all down my top. And in larger scale news, our mountains are burning. Again. While this created a beautiful, glowing crimson sun this morning, I worry so about the little tortoises.
I wonder if rugby is listed in dream analysis books?
I knew it was not a good sign when I was woken moments after I’d nodded off by my phone ringing. I always panic when my phone rings in the night (I’m a natural worrier, lucky me). It was obviously a wrong number but the guy wanted to chat. Wierdo.
I should’ve worked out that it was really not good when I was awoken by one of the monstrous mosquitoes, sucking blood from just above my eyebrow (I have an itchy bite to prove it). What made me finally get it, however, was the fact that the monstrous mosquito woke me from a dream of rugby.
Rugby. WTF? Now, while I am not averse to gathering in a pub to patriotically drink beer (while other people watch rugby) for an international game, the fact is that I’m not a rugby girl. I am, however, a beer-drinking girl. I don’t like stocky men with short (or no) necks, wearing little shorts to show off their stocky legs. I especially don’t like them when they’re running around on a field following an oblong ball, looking for excuses to give each other wedgies, or worse, blood noses.
I vaguely went back to sleep after contemplating what on earth it could mean, my dreaming of watching a rugby match. At the stadium. Live. The mind boggles. I placated myself with the knowledge that, in the dream, I was whinging about being bored. Maybe it was the lack of beer.
But my sleep was filled with barbed dreams that prickled in my mind. I woke up feeling like I’d been microwaved. At 4:45am. I’ll leave it at that. I then managed to have a lot of trouble getting my driveway gate to open to let me out to get to work. At work, I looked down to discover I’d spilt toothpaste all down my top. And in larger scale news, our mountains are burning. Again. While this created a beautiful, glowing crimson sun this morning, I worry so about the little tortoises.
I wonder if rugby is listed in dream analysis books?
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