An Unverving Dream

Last night I had a really clear dream. I am not sure how I got to the point but I was in a church (this is a church that I know) although it was much nicer than in reality, much cleaner and more inviting. The Vicar was there. Again a man that I know, a local Father although not the Father of the Church I dreamed about. The Church in my dream is a mixture of the Church I used to attend (a lovely family church that holds good memories) and my local Church as a teenager, which does not hold good memories. The Church where both my parents had their funerals and are buried.

It was a strange dream. When I got to the Church the Vicar (as I called him) passed me a gift and a letter. The gift was a Kite, all wrapped up and new. I was very brightly coloured, red, yellow and white, still in its wrapping and with the card still stapled on the top. It felt strange to get a Kite in a Church and yet I didn't ask why I was being given a Kite. I have recently purchased a Kite and tried to fly it. (I was trying to fly it with a young man who will hopefully become part of my life as we are trying to Foster him), but don't know if this has meaning in the dream, I guess it does.

I never unwrapped the Kite in the Church just put in down beside me. But the letter felt more significant. It was a blue handwritten envelope, neat handwriting, large and clear. I opened the letter and read it.

I remember reading the letter, I remember the look of the words on the page but can't remember what it said, just that I felt very emotional, really happy but also very sad. The Vicar just touched my arm to give me comfort. At this point I looked up.

And there sitting in the Church a few feet away from me sat my Nanny Lou. My maternal grandmother. I have not seen her for 41 years, she died when I was seven and yet she was so clear and she was smiling at me. I could recognise every part of her face, her eyes, her hair, her skin, the shape of her body. It was so real and so beautiful. And it felt lovely and warm and comforting. Like she was there and loving me and holding me. Although I never got close to her. I can't really explain how it felt. Just that it seemed so really, so lovely, so comforting. And I looked straight at her with this letter in my hand and it was wonderful.

At this point I woke up (5.15am) and for a moment I felt happy and loved and comforted and in a wonderful place. I wanted to return to the dream and be back with my Nanny but I couldn't.

And as I lay in bed I suddenly began to feel strange. To feel drained and unhappy, as if the dream, far from being good was a pointer to something terrible that is going to happen. I can't explain why I feel like this. It was so odd to go from almost euphoria to utter misery in such a short space of time.

All day I have felt incredibly tired and drained (I have woken up to write this). I have lacked energy and sharpness and just felt like I am being told that something in the future (the near future) is not good. I have dreaded the day. I felt like I was looking for signals to tell me what was coming. I was often aware of the dream and the memory during the day. I found myself smiling at the memory of my Nanny and then shivering at the feeling that followed. A terrible contradiction. I know this is really OTT but it feels like I should be grateful to wake up tomorrow. That is how strong the feeling is. My body had ached today, I struggled to have any clarity of thought and absolutely no enthusiasm. I just want to go back to bed to sleep and yet am almost fearful to do so.

I like to dream. It has often helped me sort out problems and definitely helped me find ideas for my writing. But this was not nice. I very rarely have nightmares and even they have not left me with the feeling that I have carried today. This was not a nightmare, it was beautiful and yet it has left me feeling devastated. Even writing this is giving me butterflies inside.

I hope tonight will be better. I hope that I can sleep as normal.

Finding other blogs

I like writing my blog but it has occurred to me that I seem to stop and start because I am not sure anyone is reading my words. I know it does not really matter because it is just good to be writing; it is good to be creative but... I have friends who read my stuff and that is good but I would love to expand what I am reading and perhaps find some new readers. So I am beginning to explore. Tonight I have found a writer in Scotland, she sounds interesting and her stuff looks good. Also she has some excellent links to writing sites. So - here goes - expanding my horizons online (so to speak).

Confidence

These are some words that I have been working on for a while. Trying to understand the difference it makes in attributing emotions to first person (me/I) or male and female subjects. I am not sure how this works but liked trying the differences.

Me Confidence

What is it about me that does not believe in me?
And my abilities to achieve.
Why?
Do I focus on the failures
and forget all the times
I have met my dreams
face to face
by welcoming them
forward to my desired ends.
And felt the enormous highs of self
confidence and power.

Her Confidence

What is it about her that does not believe in her?
And her abilities to achieve.
Why?
Does she focus on the failures
and forget all the times
she has met her dreams
face to face
by welcoming them
forward to their desired ends.
And felt the enormous highs of self
confidence and power.

His Confidence

What is it about him that does not believe in him?
And his abilities to achieve.
Why?
Does he focus on the failures
and forget all the times
He has met his dreams
face to face
by welcoming them
forward to his desired ends.
And felt the enormous highs of self
confidence and power.

DiH

The Steet (Dead Man Walking)

The man was walking down the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. He wasn’t returning from an exciting rendezvous. He was just filling his day in a meaning less sort of way.

The man didn’t walk slowly but he didn’t walk fast. He kinda meandered along, his steps evenly spaced. Sometimes his feet straddled the pavement cracks, sometimes firmly striding up from their centres.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t look down. He didn’t look left. He didn’t look right. He just stared straight ahead.

But seeing.

He manoeuvred around the obstacles of the street.

He manoeuvred around lamp posts; Council rubbish bins; empty Tesco carrier bags; discarded KFC boxes; cyclists; dog poo and people.

He manoeuvred around men and women and dogs and cats.

He manoeuvred past children walking, running, cycling, on skate boards and screaming.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t acknowledge them.

He just kept his regular strides past them down the street.

He strode on.

The man was called Brian.



DiH

The Cat

A friend is blogging some of her older work - which I love by the way - so I thought I would blog a piece I found from 2003. This will make you understand why I don't write serious poetry.

The Cat was Black and White

The cat was black and white

Large and round

He walked the wall

Twice a day

To get his breakfast and dinner

I haven't seen him today.

He must be away

or just not hungry.

DiH

I am so glad I only write poetry for fun!

Chocolate (2)

A little Smartie could kill a song bird
even the special blue ones
before and after
the dangerous colourings were removed.

Twenty two pounds of chocolate;
a lethal dose for a human.

Twenty two large purple-blue bars
wrapped up in foil
with suckable chunks
cold from the fridge
begging to be chomped down on hard
and hurting your mouth
in anxious desire
which melts exquisitely
into the roof of the mouth
to extinguish the pain.

The block stands proud
but wounded
and melts around your fingers
into a sticky scrumptious coating
that longs to be licked off individual
fingers by the tongue flicking
quickly around and between.
A provision of salty chocolate
with each gorgeous stroke.

Chocolate

This is another poem (hic) that I started on sometime ago - not sure what to do with but hey will blog it anyway.

A little Smartie could kill a song bird

even the special blue one before

and after they had the dangerous

colourings removed.

Twenty two pounds of chocolate

would be a lethal dose for a human

Twenty two large purple-blue bars

wrapped up in foil

with suckable chunks

cold from the fridge

to chomp down on hard

that melts exquisitely

into the roof of the mouth.

DiH