Dreams (157)

They discombobulate me, often. Last night it was an array of things, one dream falling into another, between getting up for a pee and shutting the window against the new autumn chill. Dreams of journeys, of lost tickets, of sitting in cafes with strangers, of cavernous hotels and trying to find the Ladies, and of clothes, of a pair of bargain-priced massively high-heeled shoes in a taupe colour with one heel coming away that I bought and didn’t want and of a dress, still on its hanger that I stole and tried to return, of being in cars and of trying to find him over and over again. The last remembrance was the worst, that of a young woman crying out her confession to a stranger and her mother, whom I couldn’t see but I knew was there, slapping her face over and over again, the last slap causing a red, bruised welt and may even have broken some teeth. I woke then and still feel shaken.

The morning promises lovely. He didn’t sleep and will forgo his walk to nap. A police car slowly purred its way along the streets of the town as I walked. I saw it several times, once it stopped and its inhabitants spoke to some students. I want to hunker down today, do my chores and rest. I sewed quietly yesterday, feeling my way with the pattern. The sea seems calmer, no white horses as yet. There were a few fallen branches on Llanbadarn Road. The wind yesterday had been fierce. A white plastic chair had been blown across the garden, she told me.