They are ubiquitous dreams. And I had two in row. In the first I was partially naked, in the second, completely so. I realised I was, so that was something but it hadn’t been intentional, it was an oversight, a brief forgetting until I saw people staring at me. They were sparked by what I’d been reading and watching, I know this now. Sally Magnusson’s book about her mother’s dementia is a moving one. I’ve read it before but now, in this second reading it is sharper. She recounts how, when she and her daughter and her mother were staying in a hotel on Mull, her mother had locked herself out of her room and come to their room without her pyjama bottoms on. It had sunk in that. And that was my dream though I was at OD and needed to draw. Anxiety dreams, self-exposing dreams, they are ubquitious and yet also telling. I am like a sponge, a thin membrane. Sometimes it is good to be so, others not.
I cried for you last night. For the you I carried and no longer know.
