Hyacinths (5)

My dreams are so multi-layered at the moment. Mostly lived out in the dark, subterranean, cave-like. There was a marketplace and a table with a few remaining hyacinth bulbs for sale. Yes, I thought, that would give me some pleasure. I watched a woman chose one, breaking off a bulb from a cluster. I walked over to join her. Then David Bowie appeared at my shoulder. Let me buy one for you, he said, beginning to reach over and select one. I hand one in my hand and he took that one too. It’s a shame that they are last weeks, he said, implying that they were not quite up to scratch. He then disappeared and I remembered that he or we hadn’t paid and searched around in my purse for some coins to put in the charity box. (Is that what they are called?) The rest is lost.

A wild morning. I didn’t walk the Prom, they’d promised winds of 42 miles per hour and I don’t want to chance it. The sun shone yesterday, russets, oranges, reds and browns bedecked the trees as we drove by. The town was bustling with people, many army personnel there for the remembrance parades. We sat in the car in silence. A woman walked past talking loudly on her mobile phone. It was good to see her. My other life. I like to be with her, she lifts me, there is so much possibility when I am with her. Outside the light is lifting, somewhat, though the clouds are a murky grey. I shall write today. I don’t relish it. I have no plan. Just begin. Find my way through the dark. There is power in beginning.

She has such a sharpness to her. Just like her. I feel ticked off by it. Hammered on the head by it. Where is her softness, her yielding-ness? I wouldn’t have wanted her to do it. I want love at the end not practicality. And there are enough who love me. Yes. As I love in return.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.