I am sitting here trying to order my thoughts. It feels like so long since I posted a meaningful blog that I’m finding it difficult to select where to start. Foremost, however, you guys probably want an update on my mental state ...
As I have alluded to, I haven’t quite been myself lately. The black dog’s bite can do that. I’m holding it together today, though I don’t really feel like doing much of anything right now. I’ve put it down to not getting enough sleep and the seemingly incessant parade of hearses going by. Death typically strikes the people I know in blocks, I can’t just go to one funeral sporadically; I have to go to x in as many weeks. It’s draining.
The irony is that I am dreaming again, and that’s not necessarily a good thing, as they’re fraught with danger and perhaps most frightening of all: allegory. I’ve made as many notes as I can on these dreams. Last night, no the night before, I dreamt of you and Grace Kelly – well, I substituted you for her.
The film was Rear Window, and I was (lucky enough to be) playing Jimmy Stewart. That first scene between the two of them, where he’s nodding off in the wheelchair and she just breezes in, divests herself of her retail therapy and slinks into his lap. In her wake, the maitre d’ of a nearby restaurant delivers dinner. I embellished the dream with a couple of personal wishes, but Rear Window was the inspiration.
Saturday morning I woke precisely in that moment between when Rachel gets out of the shower and reappears in the doorway. I have never liked waking to a silent house – even if it’s only the radio switching on, or the din of passing traffic; and for an instant I had the shit scared out of me.
And then I felt the fronts of my legs aching. They burned as though I’d been walking a steep incline for hours. I didn’t allow her to see me wince.
“It’s just before 8. What ya doin’ today, babe?”
I hesitate as a solitary drop of water coursing down her bronzed back glints in the morning sun. I indulge, watching her finish towelling off and dress, all the while being slowly turned on.
“I’m meeting Matt and we’ll just hang out. You wanna join us?”
“Which Matt?”
I tell her as she pulls her ... apricot (closest matching colour I can think of) work shirt into her skirt and zips it up. She screws up her nose as she picks the towel up from the floor and quickly changes the subject.
“How’s Miss A?”
She pretended not to see the sad smile crack my lips. “I’ve not heard.” It’s been more than three weeks now without a word. I’ve left a couple of messages for her, but no reply – yet.
The issue is dropped as Rachel grips my sparsely bearded chin between her thumb and forefinger and angles my head towards her before she kisses me gentle. I remember thinking she’s trying hard, but it’s just not working. There are seemingly some incurables that are beyond even her talents. Next thing I know it’s after 9 and I’m waking blissfully from one of those dreams I didn’t want to end. And no, that doesn’t mean what you think it does.
As I have alluded to, I haven’t quite been myself lately. The black dog’s bite can do that. I’m holding it together today, though I don’t really feel like doing much of anything right now. I’ve put it down to not getting enough sleep and the seemingly incessant parade of hearses going by. Death typically strikes the people I know in blocks, I can’t just go to one funeral sporadically; I have to go to x in as many weeks. It’s draining.
The irony is that I am dreaming again, and that’s not necessarily a good thing, as they’re fraught with danger and perhaps most frightening of all: allegory. I’ve made as many notes as I can on these dreams. Last night, no the night before, I dreamt of you and Grace Kelly – well, I substituted you for her.
The film was Rear Window, and I was (lucky enough to be) playing Jimmy Stewart. That first scene between the two of them, where he’s nodding off in the wheelchair and she just breezes in, divests herself of her retail therapy and slinks into his lap. In her wake, the maitre d’ of a nearby restaurant delivers dinner. I embellished the dream with a couple of personal wishes, but Rear Window was the inspiration.
Saturday morning I woke precisely in that moment between when Rachel gets out of the shower and reappears in the doorway. I have never liked waking to a silent house – even if it’s only the radio switching on, or the din of passing traffic; and for an instant I had the shit scared out of me.
And then I felt the fronts of my legs aching. They burned as though I’d been walking a steep incline for hours. I didn’t allow her to see me wince.
“It’s just before 8. What ya doin’ today, babe?”
I hesitate as a solitary drop of water coursing down her bronzed back glints in the morning sun. I indulge, watching her finish towelling off and dress, all the while being slowly turned on.
“I’m meeting Matt and we’ll just hang out. You wanna join us?”
“Which Matt?”
I tell her as she pulls her ... apricot (closest matching colour I can think of) work shirt into her skirt and zips it up. She screws up her nose as she picks the towel up from the floor and quickly changes the subject.
“How’s Miss A?”
She pretended not to see the sad smile crack my lips. “I’ve not heard.” It’s been more than three weeks now without a word. I’ve left a couple of messages for her, but no reply – yet.
The issue is dropped as Rachel grips my sparsely bearded chin between her thumb and forefinger and angles my head towards her before she kisses me gentle. I remember thinking she’s trying hard, but it’s just not working. There are seemingly some incurables that are beyond even her talents. Next thing I know it’s after 9 and I’m waking blissfully from one of those dreams I didn’t want to end. And no, that doesn’t mean what you think it does.