We’re both feeling a little under the weather. Biliousness. A lovely word.
I dreamt of Count Fosco most of the night, or at least that is how it seemed. That is, I dreamt of the Count Fosco as portrayed in the adaptation we have been watching. He was mesmerising. I didn’t want him to die and in my dream he didn’t. He just had a small red spot on his neck instead of the gash from the sword that sliced his throat. Both of them were there. I had to find some paper for Fosco to write something down. Anything will do, said Pesca with some urgency. I was in a crit in an Art School desperately wanting some advice as to how to lay out some letters. On and on the dream went. I woke worn through and have now raced through my cleaning chores ready for the interview. I always get nervous. Will it work out? Will I get enough to write 12,000 words. Will I relax him? Will we find a rapport? I have to trust. To be still and let it unfold.
The sky glowers over the sea. He isn’t walking this morning.
Time for some tea and then some quiet before I begin.