Forget about it

Yesterday morning, after very few hours’ sleep, I took the dog out early, and saw the sun rise over Charles Fort, and a strange elephant’s eye in the sky, watching me.  The day was the last of four in which I hosted the 23 American potters who attended workshops, and I also had to teach my weekly Thursday class, prepare the lunch room and wash everything up , pack away the furniture, prepare for and host a drinks reception in Cork City and glaze and fire two kilns full of their work.  Today is the quiet aftermath day.  Wash the glasses from the party, finish cleaning up, start to wrap and pack ceramics for delivery to the Bantry venue, have a massage, go to the gym and chill.  It all went well. Everyone enjoyed themselves and with few mishaps.

I had a strange dream last night, in which we were on holiday in a foreign city, possibly in Germany or northern Europe, and we’d take a metro to the stop close to our hotel.  The dream began in the hotel, which wasn’t smart, but full of corridors and unused rooms – a repetitive sequence for me – and then I chose to go out for a walk in the busy streets.  I walked through historic areas and modern areas, including a department store like Harrods, thronged with customers, and thought I was walking in a wide circle to come back to the hotel.  Needless to say, I became lost.  I arrived at a different metro station, which was crowded. I thought I must be only one stop from the station close to the hotel, but I couldn’t remember the name of the local station.  Although the people waiting were helpful, and one even gave me a map of the metro, it was hopeless. I couldn’t remember the name of the station, and I’d left my mobile at the hotel.  Nobody understood or recognised my description of the department store or the hotel, and I ended up sitting alone on the kerbside, late at night, knowing that I would not find my way back.  The dream was vivid and stressful and for a second night, I woke at 3.30am and read Knausgaard for an hour before trying to sleep again, without success.

It’s not a dream that means a lot.  There has been so much to organise and remember, and the lack of sleep has built up.  It isn’t some premonition of Alzheimers, or a desertion complex.  It’s a dream. But the morning now has a flavour of that dream and is backed up by the exhaustion which builds over the days.  This isn’t an unpleasant state.  It reminds me of a hangover without the headache, But I do wonder about the elephant’s eye…

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