It intrigues me the things that the unconscious fixes on to dream about. Last night, for some reason, perhaps it is that I watch him sometimes from our window, I dreamt of one of our neighbours. He works for the Welsh Books Council, sometimes babysits a white Highland Terrier, puts his washing out on an airer in the Quad below us and keeps himself to himself. In my dream he kept bringing me food and putting it in my fridge. I’m not sure whether it was  a gift or he was just taking space in the fridge. They were mainly vegetables and mostly cabbages. Great big footballs of cabbages, some rather raggedy. He complimented me on what was already in there. Nothing really happened. There were journeys and ones ahead that I was preparing for. I just remember irritation and stress that the food might go off.

I sewed yesterday. I wanted the nothingness of it. I sewed an off-white nothing, lines and lines, rows and rows of magnolia. The peace of nothing, no thought, no plan, so problem-solving. Just colouring-in. And I listened to 1962 adaptations of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories followed by the Archers. It was an emptying out, of sorts. Tony Archer was telling Natasha about his son, Tom and how he had lots of ideas but got waylaid, distracted and lacked the vision to see them through. Am I like that? Sometimes I wonder. I just want to finish things, how can you judge their success or otherwise if you don’t?

‘I was reduced to being an artist.’ A quote that I read somewhere, I can’t remember where. I like it. Is it tongue and cheek? I was reduced by being an artist. I was reduced as an artist. Lots of connotations. I think it was a man. And that he felt he had nothing else to offer.

It rained as I walked, pitter pat on my umbrella. I spent the first ten minutes trying to remember Leonard Cohen’s name. I go through the alphabet like he does now. I could’ve sworn there was a G in there somewhere. All I had was ‘Suzanne’ and the gravelly, spoken-ness of his deep voice. I turned the corner, walked down to the sea and it came.

She hasn’t replied. She is not alone. Let it go. I did what felt right. There is nothing else to do. Let it go.

I saw a clump of what looked like bodies on the Prom by Pier Pressure. Where they dead? Oh, no they are moving? I can’t quite make it out. Oh, please don’t let them be having sex. The rain was heavier by then. There were three of them. A lad was on the floor and a girl was trying to drag him up, wrench him up. Another girl in what looked like a cross between a swimming costume and a child’s romper suit was standing up looking at them, her handbag discarded on the ground. Should I have done something? I asked him at breakfast. Oh, God no, he said, leave them to it.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.