There is an artist who’s work I admire that uses his dreams as material for his drawings. They are texts, handwritten that describe his night time reveries. They are beautiful documents, copper-plated and written on thick, watermarked paper, and huge. My dreamworld has become increasingly important to me. I try to read them, to unravel them. Often topsy-turvy they are mines of information. Last night there was a baby. It was mine, and it was hungry. I knew that I’d made it a bottle but in all the mess of rubbish in the space I was living in I could find it and the baby kept crying and crying. It was distressing. I wanted to satisfy it, calm it but I couldn’t.
It’s St David’s Day on Sunday and the daffodils are out way before. She told me last week that she remembers that they always came either on the day or after. As I walked into town at 3 am a man was coming towards me carrying a bunch of freshly cut daffs. Even at that time. Was it a present?
The floods continue to ravage Shropshire. My heart goes out to those affected. Poor souls. It is biblical in its impact. May there be relief for them, soon. Please make it soon.