Sour today. Back at work after a day home yesterday. The wind and the branches of a mulberry tree out back had ripped off a bunch of roof tiles a few weeks back, leaving a hole. I worked from home while someone walked on the roof in the hot weather. It was hot still last night. Even with air-con it made for a disturbed sleep, and then I dreamed, it felt, all night long. The dreams were not bad dreams but they were dreams I would rather have not had.
All of this leaves me feeling a bit pinched today (not helped by the disgraceful behaviour of federal parliament yesterday). It’s another hot day today and I have no real appetite for anything.
I was flat-out yesterday preparing this submission and that doesn’t help either. It was a productive day but by the end of it my brains were leaking from my ears. I can’t really face much more of it today, though there’s still more to do. Somehow I can’t be bothered doing much else either – but then you have days like this, especially when you’ve not slept well.
You know me though, I’m always searching for causes and effects. I reckon all this started a little after lunch yesterday when I pulled from my letterbox the first Christmas card of the season. It was from my aunt, and once more she invited me to share Christmas lunch with them. I wish she wouldn’t.
I appreciate the gesture but it places me in an awkward position. Even if everything were good I’d think twice about going. They live about 90 minutes away, and though I’m fond of them all I’m close to none of them really. It’s their do and as far as I’m concerned Christmas day is not a day to be a hanger-on.
On top of that, however, I can’t really go because my sister and father will be there and I don’t want to see them – and don’t want to make it awkward for my aunt and her family. They know nothing of this. I’m not about to gossip to them, mainly because it would be unfair. And so, instead I run the risk of seeming aloof.
So I got the card yesterday, read the message, and all this ran through me. I worked on through the afternoon, I stopped to watch the cricket sometimes, I made dinner – but all this had started I reckon.
It informed my dreams in the end. That’s how it works in my opinion. Not always like that, but often, the things you’ve put aside or lingering at the back of your mind return to you interpreted through dreams. There’s something pure about the process. It synthesises the real dope, stripping the extraneous white noise. It gets to the real cause, and then creatively portrays it in much the same way as when I sit down to write – though perhaps more psychedelically at times. Dreams are magical realism.
What I’m left with is the sour residue. Back in the day I’d shrug it off and get back to things. That was a strength. Funny thing is that if I wasn’t running from it then I was just about sweeping it under the carpet. These days I figure I’m meant to be running to it. I think I’m meant to feel this pain.