It’s been almost a week. I’ve missed writing this. The off-loading-ness of it, the ordering of, the making it mine.
She’s been lobotomised. Well, partially at least. Poor love. My poor little laptop. She holds my world, or at least the written part of it. Some writers prefer to write by hand, pen or pencil on paper, Joanna Trollope does on her kitchen table. And I heard Paul Merton say on the radio that he doesn’t own a computer. Just for a moment I thought what bliss that would be but I know that I write best this way. Here, on this machine.
I’m trying to get her back, to make her recognisable to me again. Slowly. Breathe.
I made scribbles on post-it notes, such as the man I saw early one morning wearing a black t-shirt inscribed with the words: Still European. And that fact that I saw a shooting star. It was that cloudless morning a few days ago and I thought wouldn’t it be amazing if I saw one and there it was, falling, a white flash, gone in a blink, before me. It’s a comet, isn’t it? he said when I told him later. I’m not sure, I replied, aren’t they major events, like Halley’s Comet? Isn’t it a star, a planet falling? We agree to disagree, both aware of our ignorance. Do I have to know it to appreciate it? I think not. And there was my dream. My dream of shoes. They were pale brown patent leather brogues with laces. Shiny. I’d just bought them and kept thinking I’d lost them and had to keep checking the plastic bag. Then I thought I might have bought the wrong size. I read the label. 4:30 it said. Time, I know but in my dream world it made perfect sense. Surely they were too small. I panicked and took myself back to the moment I’d tried them on. They had fitted.
The dream dictionary states that dreams about buying shoes suggests that you want to change your life.
We’re human beings not human ‘doings’, he said.