Category: Writings

I have a strong sense of smell. Sometimes it is a gift at other times it is a curse. It turns me against hotel rooms, other people’s houses and sometimes the people themselves. I don’t mean it to, but my body rejects the noisome. As he knows.

It has become habitual and when it isn’t there my body and mind seek it out, actively. You don’t seem so tense today, he says. But I am. It has just arrived, pricking, like a conscience never to be appeased.

We live so deeply within in when we are dreaming them, and then we wake and they are lost. Where do they go? He says that sometimes he gets flashes of ones that he has dreamt long ago. I think I do too. I try to piece them together on first waking but they slip from my grasp. It makes me sad, that.

I woke at 11.00pm from a dream about an ex-tutor of mine. He was wrapping some small sandwiches up for me in what he told me was an aloe vera type of wrapping. Had I been visiting him? It was a kind gesture, though I knew that I would never eat the sandwiches. When I went back to sleep after having a pee, I dreamt of him again, though this time we were both in the art school. Other faces that I knew were there too. I woke just after I’d began wrapping up his tools for him.

We have two. The smaller one, the one that I use most of the time, is a little broken. It’s the wind, and its broken one of its metal supports. Opened it looks like a bird with a detached wing. I use it anyway. The rain is made more bearable by it, even though it blows inside and out repeatedly.

He wants to find me a dress, but, as he says, its a complicated business. It was the same when we used to go searching for ephemera for my work, he wanted to be the one that found the perfect thing. I understand. And when he doesn’t or can’t, he gets a little mopey.

I spoke out in my dream last night. It is unusual for me. I feel strongly about things but my habitual diffidence often means that I keep it to myself, though not to him. She and her partner were abusing their dogs, using a whip, that was circus-like in appearance (a kind of lion taming long black thin). Sitting down next to me, she began explaining how her animals were a trial and how she was a martyr to them. I stood up and gave her a piece of mind. She look surprised, as indeed was I.

The man on the radio mentioned the word, and of course I’d heard of it as the title of a James Bond film, but I’d never understood what it stood for. He talked of moonshine and how the makers of this illegal hooch would stow it in bottles underwater, in rivers or lakes, and by the light of the moon, would pull up their haul from their watery hiding places and partake of it.

I don’t like using the word, I shouldn’t use it, especially when describing my feelings towards others. All those presidents and politicians whose words I find hard to stomach are still part of me, of us, of the world, and must be accepted, if not heard. When will the good shine out? Is it still there?

I have an ambivalent attitude towards rules. I can see the benefit in some of them, and appreciate the sense of order that they promote, but if petty and overly rigid they irritate me. As they did yesterday. And when they do I get rather sniffy. He did his best but I could feel my face growing sour. All was resolved in the end and the pictures were taken, though not to my satisfaction, sadly. Being out, away from home, was odd though. I think I may be becoming a little agoraphobic.