Smokingboot

Yesterday was a pleasant if slightly serious day. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine experienced a slight but constant pain in her back between her shoulders. It stopped when she paused doing stuff, proof, were any needed, that activity is a dubious friend. She went to the doctor, tests were done, all was well, ECG fine, but the medic was still troubled, something didn't 'feel right', and ordered an angiogram.

That was when the need for a triple bypass was discovered. Some kind of hereditary problem. Stents were a possibility but they would need replacing, so instead they decided to use arterial material from within her leg to create the bypass. They didn't need it all, so she said they could use the rest in research. Question I dared not ask: if they use leg arteries, what happens when the legs need blood? Of course there's more than one blood conduit in a lower limb, but I am ignorant on the subject. She was in a bind, I think, a naturally very chatty person at once wanting and fearing to talk about it. Far more cheerful for her were her tales of the other patients, the doctors and nurses and doings on the ward. She says she gets better each day, and there's hope she can join us for the games night some chums hope to host this weekend, but if I am any judge of expression, her fatigue quickly overpowers her eagerness. My sense is that Games Night will be too much.

We left having brought gifts of puzzles, a crochet flower, and The Number One Ladies Detective Agency. We wanted to bring these to the hospital, but R caught something covid-like and it seemed too risky.

And last night? A dream of Daft Bint sitting down glowering to inform me and some other people that she was going to Crete to find Chokmah and copyright it. I couldn't help smiling and she turned to me with some asperity, demanding to know what I found so funny. I kept my temper, spoke a little about those who had tried, in the past, tried to copyright concepts, but whether or not she heard anything is another matter. She was in a foul temper about something, and I couldn't help wondering what Cretan Zeus would do with such a cheerful visitor. Before or after this I was in a market I know well in my dreamworld, it changes but you can buy a lot of things there, including perfectly useless junk. However, it attaches to a kind of museum street, and from there is a mausoleum I keep almost visiting. It has something to do with Rome, there is a path under the earth I should get to but never quite do, and sure enough, I didn't this time either.

Insomnia has been a real difficulty recently, so I decided to try some Valerian tea from the local herbalists. Tried a cup when I got it yesterday, conked out within 30 minutes. Interesting! Lots of images and faces, surface dreams. Last night I tried again, and it took a while, possibly because of the earlier siesta, though I entered a properly relaxed state very quickly. Sleep, when it came, was very deep and lasted til 9 this morning.

Dreams of a younger person, very devoted, beside me. Baths, people submerging into their baths under the water, cluttered room, a very beautiful combination of black and green around me. This tea also combined Chamomile. The best sleep I had was in Crete, after cups of Chamomile flowerhead tea, but this stuff was sold loose at the old market in Chania. Dude had gone into the hills, gathered it and dried it, there you go. It worked extremely well. Russ buys it here for me and it does work, though nowhere near as effectively.

This tea combines Chamomile with Valerian, and it's good but it feels more... active. Like Chamomile brings you calm sleep, Valerian brings you deep sleep. Also, winter sleep and summer sleep are never the same. Lack of them is, though; you get scratchy and weird and make mistakes. I'll continue to use it but will probably wait until our guests go home on Sunday in case it makes me sleepy throughout the day. They'll be here this evening, one may well be very tired, the other requires delicate handling. Might see if they want to try the tea.

Oh, and the visit to the doctor? Pfff.

Right now the dead are busy in my dreams. Last few days it was Aunty, this time it's Dad. I can't help being superstitious about such dreams, they make me worry for Mum, but then that's what they are, anxiety wrapped up in fancy. I've spent the last two months worrying about her. Dad had done a lot of grocery shopping, bags of which were all over the floor waiting to be put away into cupboards etc. I was bewildered by all this activity, I don't remember my father ever shopping in his entire life. He gave me some teeny gold beads to eat, like breadcrumbs rolled in gold. I tried them and they were sweet, but nothing special. There was some black and white footage of me but much prettier and young, it was very 1940s/50s. When I turned my back, you could see something like a big mole/scab/wound to the left on my lower back. It was the kind of distracting thing one would edit out of a photo today.

Meanwhile, the tree is nearly finished. One of the old masks needs fixing but some are in place. R loves them and they'll entertain our guests. I like them too, even though the Prince at the top makes the whole thing look somewhat sinister. Mum thinks we should bung a star there, and she has a point. He does have this habit of significant looming.

Shepherd take warning, it's going to be cold (going to be? I already have my endless winter headache,a tightening across my forehead that makes me feel like I am squinting at everything) and I've had a ginger shot to boost my, ugh, I don't know, powers of enthusiasm or something. But in fairness, these late sunrises are worth it, bands of orange and pink all across the sky. I cannot love Winter the way I love Summer, but I do love it. From afar.

Strange dream, Mum and I sitting in a cafe somewhere, suddenly up pops my dear dead aunt, she comes to the table and kisses each of us, says something I can't remember, then goes into a back room. I don't follow her there, partly because Mum and I are astonished saying 'Did you see? Was that her? What the -?' and it never occurs to me to follow because she's a ghost until I remember that I'm dreaming and there's no reason why a ghost can't appear in a dream.

Strange dream full of sharp flashes. I was in a lesbian relationship with someone, I could feel them holding me, the real sensation of intimacy, but I don't remember their name/face/anything about them. Glimpses of me looking at a map, finding myself on the South East outskirts of London, close to Plumstead or Woolwich but there was another borough with a name I could not recall, and it was either South or South West. I don't even know why I was looking for it. Me again in a room with a high bunk bed, bit small for me but I could use it. Nuclear Man's wife in a house, she was expecting another child, a son. But the house had no curtains, no material at all that I could see, and this was strange because she was always excellent with fabric, upholstery,etc. She was very happy.

I woke with a gravestone suddenly in my mind. Maybe my mind is trying to tell me this is a time of endings and beginnings. All good I guess, but uneasy.

Out we went to North Berwick to have that conversation we always have whenever we go to North Berwick.

'Should we have moved here?'

We'd have paid easily 20% more on a smaller newbuild for a North Berwick postcode on account of its pretty & posh combo, plus the connections in and out of Edinburgh and Glasgow are rubbish. Nights out at the Fringe would have been difficult if not impossible. On the other hand those newbuilds gained value very fast because of said postcode. On the third hand, you could barely make out the sea from them, and what I wanted would be on the coast or in the old town. On the fourth hand, those sea-facing houses leak heat badly in Winter. A woman who lived there described it to us as chucking five pound notes out through her front door. So having used up four hands at least, we always return to the same decision; better to visit as and when. Yesterday was definitely the when.

Back to the roar of the sea and its white horses riding, little boats in the harbour and the sun so warm and bright as the afternoon came in under that perfect blue sky. We wandered the streets- OK, street, there's basically only one for shopping - bought a little here and there. Then down to the water, and we just walked, not even far.

The sun grew even brighter on the way home past hills and fields. It was a very beautiful day.

By night my dreams were a little strange. I was at a raucous party full of friends, people I half remembered, and others who were perfect strangers. I was talking with someone I barely knew when I noticed that the person next to them, who almost but not quite had their back to me, was Nuclear Man! He was hovering there like a shark in the water. I used the time honoured method of dashing to the loo to wait for friends and share this discovery so we could gossip at the horror of it. Someone came in and we started talking and away floated that dream... then suddenly I saw my brother, much younger, his image in sharp relief. I sent him what I can best describe as a psychic hug, green light and my arms around him.

Well, that was truly terrible.

I used to get cluster migraines with aura. Now they don't cluster, in fact they hardly come at all. I don't think I get more than 3/4 a year. But when they arrive...

Last night was one such and onset was so rapid all I could do was go to bed. The migraine went away eventually and there was a man at the end of my bed. I was awake and I was screaming, R rushed in and held me, and for a while I couldn't stop.

The man had long hair, so long in fact that it might have been some sort of Louis XIV wig, only much lighter and less voluminous. I didn't see his clothes, I barely saw him before screaming. Pfff, when I would give so much to see the spirit of our dear boy Ralik I get some 17th century random. He was raising his hand.

The ghost can't be house related, this place is less than 30 years old, half that possibly, and before that it was pastureland. I said 17th century, might have been 18th, I'd have more info if I had been able to hold back my shock. So much for that.

When I was better R went away, I told him to turn off the light because... I don't know why. The room was very cold and I kept hearing creaks. but the room wasn't so cold. I was so cold.

Then I started to burn up and I went to find R, asked him to get me a drink of water. Noticed a butterfly down in the corner close to the floor. Checked with R, it was really there. I was disturbed because how would it feed there? Wouldn't it die?

Went back to bed and dreamed now, of nuclear man and his wife, how we seemed to be in this strange strained situation where everyone was trying to act normally. Then a glimpse of the proper ex trying a combover. I laughed, cos there was no need for such effort. He was always handsome, might as well let lack of hair show off his features.

Then I woke properly with the smallest remnants of a headache but there's nothing ominous to it. Still, no caffeine today, very little screen time, and I might well have to postpone my calorie burning walk.

The butterfly was there this morning, so I moved it with some flowering mint. I placed that on a sunflower facing the outside so it can go when it wants, but it's a small tortoiseshell and they hibernate in sheltered places. How long is that for, and where can I put it that's dark enough and safe from the cleaner?



The peace symbol was entirely accidental. But it's a cute moment.

P.S. I heard a stern fluttering at the patio doors. Butterfly was awake and ready to fly off, after all that, not hibernating, just asleep. I hope its dreams were better than mine!

Some interesting conversations yesterday, including a nice one with Bro re Alice Jane.

'Why are we interested now,' he asked, 'when we weren't before?'
'Because she had a guardian then. Now she has no one.'
'Her mother has a huge family. She will have arranged something.'
'Probably.' I conceded.
'AJ can't stand you. She preferred my boyfriend to me, and she preferred me to you,' he pointed out, 'she's a grown woman, she'll be in the social services system somewhere, and the last time we saw her she had four carers. What do you hope to bring her? How involved do you want to be?'

This was harder to define. I don't want to be her guardian though I'd certainly advocate for her if she was in a situation inimical to her health and happiness. But really I just want to be sure she's not a missing person, cos right now, according to public records, she might as well be.

'You're not doing this cos she's our half-sister,' Bro said, 'you're doing this because you would do it for anybody. Because you're basically ethical.' Basically ethical! At least he's moved on from calling me things like 'beautiful beast' and 'frankly monstrous'!

Dreams followed. I was in the car with R driving as he tried to squeeze us between a lorry and the kerb, but there was something there and we crashed right into it. Blackout. Then we stood there unharmed, R smiling at me. We had to take off before the police got there, even though we were the only casualties. But somehow we were just fine, despite the car being totalled.

Cut to an American style country house,lots of wood everywhere, my Aunt F's house (though not!) where everything had a purpose and bottles were filled with jams, oils, potions. It was a pleasant place full of people. There was a tiny mini house right beside the steps leading up to a side door. I pulled out what seemed like a slat in the side of the mini-house and out came bees. A hive of course! They swarmed a bit and I saw a very big one identifiable as a queen, but they all settled down quickly. I was surprised that my aunt kept bees so close to the house itself, but as they all seemed chilled, she clearly knew what she was doing. Turned to observe someone dressed in dark colours crossing the lawns and walking towards the house, and one of the dogs took off to check the visitor out. Cut to the interior where R and I were packing to leave. I had no idea where we were going.

And there it was. If you want to know your own heart with clarity, if you want to know what’s making you awkward and anxious, pay attention to your sleep. It’ll tell you what’s going on , albeit with a lot of incomprehensible froth and bubble. Because what fun is a dream we fully understand?

Mine began with me standing in a row of men who all had to take their trousers and underwear off and stand in a line. For some reason I was with them, wearing a long tee-shirt which I pulled down and used to cover myself. Then there was the bizarre sight of Boris Johnson, ex PM, totally naked and corpulent slamming himself up and down on a dead chicken repeatedly. It didn’t look like sexual congress though the act was hard to categorise as anything else. A giant chute appeared and Boris was dragged down into it, trying to cling on by his fingernails.

Then came the real dream after all the bizarre juxtapositions of an exhausted mind. A stern looking nurse told me the cancer had returned. She even pointed out where it was. There’s the real nightmare, once seen and known to be put in its place among the phantoms, the what-the-hells and the maybe/nevers.

I am awake ready for coffee.

There's a thing I do sometimes, when waking approaches and I'm not ready; I know it's on its way because I become aware of my own heart beat. And if, in that state, I just listen, eventually it may slow and fade out in the return to sleep. But in that time of listening images may come too. This works best if they are not forced, not even touched. The best way to describe this is that whatever comes into ones mind should rise more like bubbles from a spring than bubbles in boiling water. The latter can be just as valid but with pressure there is also the chance of forcing a vibe or a narrative. Intent pushes too hard, leave it be. Just go back to sleep.

This time I heard my heart beating and decided to follow the beat that turned into the march of many people through the gates of a temple complex. I say march, it was not rigorous, quite informal, and dissipated quickly. Someone said something about the temple having all the cosmos in it, which seemed a bit extravagant to me. I saw a door opening in stone and beyond it something like a cloister. It was for me so I went through it.

Beyond lay a short cliff top plateau facing the same opposite, though this latter was covered in trees. It had been day in the complex but this was all night-time silhouette, over a vast long gorge below, out of which lifted the vivid pinks and greens of the Northern Lights, as if they could come out of the earth. But this could not be right surely.

It seemed very strange that in the Temple of the Constant Heart (how did I know its name?) there could be this anomaly, an area that looked like a cloister but when you got there was actually a place of potential danger and wildness. There was room enough on the rocky plateau, but the edge seemed abrupt. Not so much that you were in immediate danger of tumbling down the mountain but definitely a place where accidents might beset the unlucky or unwary.

I came back in and was shown a treasure, an ancient beautifully embroidered belt, with a design of two suns. The buckle was designed like their rays interacting in the space between them. There was much gold. I can't recall if the guardian of it let me pick it up but suspect she did. She was an old nun in white. I stared at it with the idea percolating through my head that inconstancy is a failing I punish thoroughly - these were the words that came to me, but the nun didn't say anything - I don't know who said them. The next realisation was an understanding that for all my reaction to those I consider inconstant, I am not entirely devoid of that flaw myself.

But sure, in my own language, stars have a connection with constancy. I left the room of the belt and realised I could hear my own heart no more, sinking back into the quiet of sleep.

Edited to add: Oh wait, it's Shakespeare's birthday, so stars and constancy make perfect sense today.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Or less well known Sonnet 14

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy—
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date.

So yes, thanks Bill. Happy Birthday!