My title is intended quite literally.
I came down with a plague of dreams a few days ago. There was this particular horrible night in which I had a succession of four … bad dreams, which weren’t nightmares only by dint of the fact that I did not wake up particularly emotionally overwrought or terrified, just faintly ill at ease. In one of them, I was actually Harry Potter, hiding from Voldemort in the Malfoy mansion. I kid you not. Dobby kept popping in and failing at trying to help me elude discovery. It was tense. It was a very disconcerting dream; I kept running into cul de sacs, and there would be literally no escape, and then my subconscious would seemingly realize that I was in a dream and just let me slip through a tear in the dream fabric.
The worse (more bemusing?) thing is that I woke up with the impression that it wasn’t the first time I had that dream, either. Another one that also felt like a recurrent one was one in which there seemed to be a malevolent spirit trapped in essence in an apple or another fruit of some sort, and I had to exorcise it by running down a corridor and trying to get other people to eat the apple. It felt a lot more menacing than it sound, a sort of bizarrely casual, terrifyingly understated horror movie.
If I have them again tonight as a result of recounting them, I will … be very unhappy. There were more, but the rest were all emotional demons. I literally never have happy dreams. Pleasant, comforting, longing ones, yes. Outrightly cheerful ones? No.
Half of my first term has fled from me. There were more I wanted to say, but those thoughts have fled, too. The other day, when I was looking at food blogs, I saw a photo of watermelon slices, and unbelievably, the crisp, light sweetness of a freshly cut watermelon wafted up to me. It was stunning. It wasn’t even a good photo. But undeniably, I smelt watermelon. It’s not possible. It amazed me.
Have some poetry:
I love its smallness: as though our whole town
were a picture postcard and our feelings
were on vacation: ourselves in mini-
ature, shopping at tiny sales, buying
the newspapers–small and pale and square
as sugar cubes–at the fragile, little curb.
The way the streetlight is really a table
lamp where now we sit and where real
night, (which is very tall and black and
at our backs), where for a moment
the night is forced to bend down and look
through these tiny windows, forced to come
closer and put its hand on our shoulder
and stoop over the book to read the fine print.
This reminds me of both Singapore and Oxford. I want to study in a slightly drafty room in a brick building overlooking shrouded, cobblestone streets. I want a fire.
This reminds me of Pearson. In particular the hunger and the youthful indiscretion. In particular the Pacific. In particular Live there.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
A friend gifted me with some emphatic words the other day. There were things I needed someone else to tell me, someone in perhaps the same phase I was in. Sometimes we need each other to tell ourselves things we already know.
Finally, have a song:
We are the reckless,
We are the wild youth
Chasing visions of our futures
One day we’ll reveal the truth
That one will die before he gets there.
And if you’re still bleeding, you’re the lucky ones.
‘Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone.
We’re setting fire to our insides for fun.
Collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home,
It was a flood that wrecked this home.
A little overwrought, but I like the stripped down, apocalyptic atmosphere of the song, and the poignancy of the sentiment setting fire to our insides for fun.