I think I dreamt last night, I'm not sure. I've been dreaming a lot recently about paintings and in particular the artist Kay Sage, whose surrealist works are proving quite an inspiration to me of late. An article I read on some blog somewhere says that her life, though not unhappy, was threaded through with melancholy. I dream I am in her paintings. I dream of the photograph of her when she was young.
I dream of Southside and Kinloss, as always, and Woodstock Drive in Ickenham, and of course, London Road in Worcester, all these psychic generators made up of my own past. The dreams and myths I have concocted of these places somehow supersede their real life counterparts, their waking reflections. Almost anyway. When I go back to these places - Worcester most often - I find vague traces of myself as I was there. Haunting my own past. Haunted by houses. I would love to enter into an old house in which I lived.
The wind is constant now, rattling the house,s ending the lamps spun across the mews in a seasick rhythm that mocks the sea I've not yet seen. I should go down to the beach and watch that spindrift-mad ocean. Its been flinging pebbles up onto the boulevard, drowning benches, destroying huts. The storms won't last forever, and before we know it grey February will have started her reign.
After midnight now. Time to lie down and dream myself back into the past that only ever seems a fracturing of thin ice away.
