Dreamtime and Geishas

“When you dream, what do you dream about?
Are they colour or black-and white? Yiddish or English or languages not yet conceived?
Are they silent or boisterous?
Do you hear noises just loud enough to be perceived?
Do you hear Del Shannon’s ‘Runaway’ playing on transistor radio waves?
With so little experience, your mind not yet cognizant, are you wise beyond your few days?
When you dream, what do you dream about?”
– Barenaked Ladies ‘When You Dream’

The elements don’t need to make sense, for they are tumbled in my mind, swirling like ink dropped into a bowl of water and stirred; blooming, rolling over and mingling the threads of their colours into a glorious confusion, the like of which can only be achieved through the topical application of Hours After Midnight (four, to be precise, but it’s a Bank Holiday in England, so I may do as a like, and what I like, at this time, is to write, to mainline my new favourite lullaby, and keep an eye on the insistent-yet-delicious ego-stroke of having added new photographs to Facebook – I have kind friends).
I was taught how to send my voice across the seas this weekend, stunned and delighted as my phone reverberated with excitement as my friends near and far received snippets of conversation, joke and song. We laughed; we exchanged foreign languages; we whispered; we giggled; and the wires in my little hardwired heart quite flexed in delight at this new nearness, which made everything feel so much more REAL.
And you know me – I love my Real. 
Sometimes the Real is knowing the story behind the story, and a glamorous pilot, a chic Dilettante or a red-headed prostitute may not be all they seem, yet each, in their way, is wonderful, and the knowing of the backgrounds, even to a small degree, adds a layer of piquancy to engagement with the Presented Front.
Alluring? (the MIND not the…oh nevermind!)

Yet even for one whose public persona might wear a painted face and a steely glint in her eye, there lies allure in the Real, and intense draw in a mind as meanderful, simultaneously-deep-and-shallow, and affected by the ever-present layers of meaning in life, as her own. 

And so it is, in a week where I displayed incredible levels of desperate vanity, a little bit of healing massage, and incredulity (barely masked) at a conversation with my (archetypal) new pilates teacher about her astrophysicist rabbi, I make my offering to the Owner of the Crazy Tree, who celebrates, at some point, a birthday.
As per her special request, I bequeath unto her the fiction of my Hat of Consternation, the like of which has never before been seen (in ‘stick’) and which, I daresay, will still hold the ability to elicit a grin from its viewers. Splatter it around the internet to show your well-wishes for her special day, and know that when I draw them, my stick-figures are as precious as glitterbombs, and are only meted out to the Very Special.
Thus I leave you, as I started, with my current favourite lullaby, ‘sang’ to me by *my* favourite Dilettante, when I asked what she’d pick to send me off to sleep. I’ve mainlined it ever since, once it gets past whatever time my eyes start to feel sleepy.

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