Butterfly House

I walked a different way home, up and up through the Buarth. One of the house’s lights were on, in their living room and the curtains were open. I stole a peek. It was a small front room with two two-seater sofas both draped in mushroom-coloured blankets. The imitation gas fire was on in the fireplace and on the wall facing the window was an array of butterflies, mostly single butterflies, framed individually. I stood for a moment, enchanted. Were they real? There were white paper ones too, stuck directly to the wall, flying in-between the frames.

Another heavily symbolic dream, lived through whilst the wind battered my open window. I was catching a train. It was a London one for there were those heavy, clunking doors. I went to the front of the train. Loads of people were trying to board. I was at the back of the queue. I let them all get on ahead of me, including 5 naked young men sans their sexual organs (they were either airbrushed out or they were wearing posing pouches). Then the lights went out and I couldn’t see my way on. I clutched at one of the handles to haul myself aboard as it began to roll out of the station. My friend J was behind me. I got on and she didn’t. I felt bad, should I have helped her? The doorway was packed full of luggage and I had to struggle over it. The front of the train, (that now looked more like a bus with the driver exposed and facing to the right rather than ahead), was full of children of all ages. The driver paid me no attention but talked away to a little boy near her (yes she was a she) handing him an Ipad to explain her point more easily. I searched around for a seat but the children had taken up all the room. I woke then and lay there listening to the wind.

I’m to return to my, for want of a better word, book. It’s been a while. Just re read it, he says. It’ll be better than you think. Read it. Immerse yourself in it. Then write. Good advice. How I long for tea.

Listened to Helen McCrory on DID yesterday. An interesting woman, unusual, I think but very engaging. I’m not an original, she said, I’m an interpreter. Hmm.