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[personal profile] smokingboot
This summer I've been making a real effort to go to free festivals in London. There are loads, and they're charming. The Lambeth Country Show was no exception, except that it had the most wonderful herb stalls of the lot. I wanted to buy things like mullein, skullcap and woad, stuff you don't see anymore, but I bottled out after buying some favourites of mine, Thyme and Vipers Bugloss for the bees, Catnip for kitties, Fennel and Dill for food and feathery loveliness, Roman Chamomile because it's irresistible. I should have bought southernwood and pennyroyal too. I should have just buried myself in a forest of herbs for the rest of the day...

And of course, always good to meet friends; the bro joined us, and all was great. The next day was about rest and catching up with someone who wanted to tell me some private stuff. Both nights I had terrible dreams.

Saturday night I dreamed I asked my father for some help with a hurt robin. One of its wings had been sheered right off, as though it had never had a wing there at all. It just hopped around while I tried to keep cats away. I wondered if the merciful thing was to kill it, then I looked down and saw on the ground one little dead bird, on top of which was another, smaller, dead bird, respectfully placed. Was I just collecting dead birds out of pointless cherishing?

Last night I dreamed I was having an interview with an old lecturer of mine: He was a small gentle man in real life; here he was berating me about my bad behaviour in the past, a paper of mine he had marked 17 and a half out of something. The paper was about fairies, but he said it wasn't pointed enough, and he had written awful comments about me. One was something about raging/flaming/some adjective describing overwhelming depression and there was something about psychopathy, which, in the dream, made me wonder if I was my father. Having realised that I wasn't, I took the lecturer to task, asking him how he thought these comments would help me at all. I reminded him of the room I had stayed in, where there were problems with ghosts. He laughed. 'Well, you would have trouble in that room,' he said, but agreed his words had not been helpful. I tore a strip off him. We were travelling with a group somewhere. I didn't care, not about the group, not about him.

Maybe this had to do with me having a PTSD episode last night, my first in a long time, triggered by something on TV. I don't know. But I feel very uncomfortable today and once again feel a kind of coldness around me.

God I need some decent sleep.
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