Anthill Mob

My dreams take me to dark places. I wake in a fug, my head woozy and bleak. Such complexity – the colours, the people, the confusion of relationships. And that strange capacity of dreams that takes the dreamer from one situation to another without explanation – one is just there. She was in my dream and she was living with her father in a flat above us. She filled the small rooms, Amazon that she is. Then we were all in a restaurant together. And he kept trying to touch me when I didn’t want him to. We talked of the travelling we were going to do. To Eastern Europe, I think. I asked what she’d like to do (I get a sense we were in London). She said she liked ‘what they did with the Anthill Mob’. Where did that come from? As far as I can remember the Anthill Mob were one of the perennial contestants on in The Wacky Races along with Dick Dastardly and Mutley (or was it Muttley?). Where did my subconscious find that? I dream of her so often. So much yet to do, to repair. To love.

Adamantine. It was a word in a novel I’ve borrowed from the library. I’ve read it before but wanted to re-read it. A gentle book with a beautiful reproduction of a painting by Bonnard on the front. I looked up its meaning. Unbroken. It cannot be broken. Yes. I get it now.

I showed him my tweet. He’d told me off the day before for not making it clear to the recipient who I was, for not ‘networking’ properly. I wanted to show him that he knew me after all. Thanking me. And then he pointed out my mis-spelling. I feel so small. They’ve all seen it. I’ve made a public fool of myself. I never realised it was spelt like that. I’ve never had recourse to spell it before. Nothing I can do but live with my ignorance. I know now. Don’t I?

She sends a round robin. It comes from a place of good, I think. She wants to share but on her terms. Don’t we all. But it feels distant, it is not intimate. I cannot rise to it. It is not directed at me but a mass, a group, something indistinct. I send her best wishes, love even. But something has been lost. Or perhaps it never was.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.