Anyhow, in
my semi-comatose state and at one with the dream I picked up a
dislodged ear plug and, thinking it was a 'chip', popped it in my
mouth. And bit down, or tried to. Luckily, realising the texture
wasn't right I came to and quickly took the offending (and by now
wet) article out of my mouth. But I'd been so sure, before, that what
I get would be crispy fried potato. It was a surprise, and
displeasing, when I didn't.
What
was going on? Had my brain gone into Homer Simpson Mode?
Chips...chips...shudder...dribble. The mere image of them, and
thinking I was already eating them, had made me want them. And I
haven't touched the real thing in years; I'm more of a rice and pasta
gal, and potatoes, if they're had, are in their jackets or peeled,
baked or boiled. Besides, you never enjoy something as much as you
think you're going to when you actually
have
it. Well, that theory was borne out in the dream too.
I
thought this little episode was funny. Last
night I tried to eat an earplug!
Cue
laughter, smirks; none. Why am I the only one to be amused?
All others
seemed to see was the danger. I could have choked; I could have
swallowed the earplug. I hadn't considered that, and I still felt,
when they voiced this in all seriousness to me, unconcerned. I
hadn't; I had stopped myself. Well, okay, not me, my brain had; I
presume the more sensible part.
But were
they right? Should I have been able to act out what my dream self was
experiencing? Could I have been not strictly speaking in a dream but
in a lucid state? And have I ever done anything like this before,
that I don't know of? I could set up a camera and film. No, creepy.
And I would never be able to sleep with a lens pointing at me. It
would be too weird to watch back, also.
Oh, why
had I said anything to anybody! Raise a laugh – isn't she daft?-
raise worries more like.
And so to
expunge myself of these I went on a memory association trip and
found: Nan.
In the
kitchen in a floral print dress about to sound the gong for luncheon
and open the film.
My baby's
sick, my baby's sick, the wood pigeons lament; the gulls chime in
with their high-pitch cries.
More
pork, join in some sleepy New Zealand owls (what
are they doing here?);
a little bit of bread and no cheese, cheep some unidentifiable birds;
who wears short shorts? says the Crow.
The
opening song of the birds fades; the din of the gong reverberates.
Nan and
the womenfolk dance, pass things through the serving hatch, to the
men on the other side; or go through, from the kitchen to the dining
room, from the dining room to the kitchen.
Kids and
dogs get underfoot, run in and out, in and out, as the table is laid
and people take up their accustomed places.
A mad
house, though there are only three couples, three children and two
dogs.
Quiet
descends, within and without, as all are seated; the dogs, on their
haunches, gradually slump, head on paws. The only sounds to be heard
are polite murmurs of 'Yes, please' and No, thank you', as bread and
butter and plates are passed and drinks are poured.
Lunch is
served. A gentle hum of conversation, in-between grunts of
appreciation and swallows and bites, resumes.
Fade out.
Ah, so the
gulls, so far inland, had made me think of the seaside and Nan. Nan
who would put crispy fried potatoes in a newspaper cone. And who,
along with other members of the family, thought birds spoke and who
would echo back, repeatedly, the wood pigeon's wail.
Picture credit: Potatoes in a Yellow Dish, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (source: WikiArt).
This post was penned in 2019.
