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The Bad Dream that shouldn't have Been.
Mar. 24th, 2020 01:14 pmI learned last night about the UK's lockdown, and can't begin to describe how sick it makes me feel, how vulnerable our democracy is now. It's not as though there isn't precedent for national crises being used by wannabe draconian governments. So grim.
Of course that is not happening here. We won't let it, and I am not even sure BJ wants it. He wants fame and adulation not real responsibility, in fact he has fled the latter all his life.
Still, my stomach feels terrible, I feel terrible. Anywhere you have to stay is a cage.
So the dream, the dream. Across some fields, a particularly beautiful scenic route downhill; my assumption was that it petered out somewhere on a grass verge beside a motorway, but its beauty should have been enough to draw me in; besides, a thief who had taken something valuable from me had gone that way, and there was a white goat too. I like goats. But still, I didn't take that route.
Instead I went cross country to a small village. It was on lockdown,so basically empty, but every English trope was alive in it. The most modern thing was a deconsecrated church turned coffee bar. It was all charming, full of norman ruins; there were arches everywhere and some buildings of cotswold stone looking very grand. Someone had put some huge tacky crown like a seat in the middle of it all, like a salesroom decoration I looked at the ground while walking on it, only to see how it had all been a walled town once, though now beneath my feet.
I detested it. No reason behind my dislike, but there it was.
And I woke while this strange antipathy was still resonating, grateful to be in Scotland. This last especially makes no sense; everywhere is in lockdown, no reason for me to like or dislike it more in one place than another.
Of course, my headspace is vulnerable right now.Sometimes I hear aunty around me, a day ago I heard her voice so distinctly it was unbearable, though very lovely too.
Writing this down, I see it directly links into some old symptoms. But for now, I am done recalling all this.
Of course that is not happening here. We won't let it, and I am not even sure BJ wants it. He wants fame and adulation not real responsibility, in fact he has fled the latter all his life.
Still, my stomach feels terrible, I feel terrible. Anywhere you have to stay is a cage.
So the dream, the dream. Across some fields, a particularly beautiful scenic route downhill; my assumption was that it petered out somewhere on a grass verge beside a motorway, but its beauty should have been enough to draw me in; besides, a thief who had taken something valuable from me had gone that way, and there was a white goat too. I like goats. But still, I didn't take that route.
Instead I went cross country to a small village. It was on lockdown,so basically empty, but every English trope was alive in it. The most modern thing was a deconsecrated church turned coffee bar. It was all charming, full of norman ruins; there were arches everywhere and some buildings of cotswold stone looking very grand. Someone had put some huge tacky crown like a seat in the middle of it all, like a salesroom decoration I looked at the ground while walking on it, only to see how it had all been a walled town once, though now beneath my feet.
I detested it. No reason behind my dislike, but there it was.
And I woke while this strange antipathy was still resonating, grateful to be in Scotland. This last especially makes no sense; everywhere is in lockdown, no reason for me to like or dislike it more in one place than another.
Of course, my headspace is vulnerable right now.Sometimes I hear aunty around me, a day ago I heard her voice so distinctly it was unbearable, though very lovely too.
Writing this down, I see it directly links into some old symptoms. But for now, I am done recalling all this.
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