Saturday, December 05, 2020

I don't seem to post much here these days. In part it may be that there are so many possible outlets for this kind of thing and also really this only expects an audience of one. Famously, the account of one's amazing dreams is amazingly boring to anyone else. Dreams seem to change as year pass. Or mine do, anyway. Some dream 'plots' have diminished -I hardly ever dream of that doomed battle against that all encompassing evil entity of which I so often I'm part, in those dreams. I still have all those dreams of failed travelling, where I arrive at the wrong destination or a deserted, abandoned one or something goes terribly wrong during the journey or I've left something vitally important behind. I still dream of my old house in Magallanes de Catia in west Caracas, crumbling down before our eyes -but I carry that house in which I grew up, with me wherever I go. All that untidiness and disrepair and all that enormous entropy dragging it down into the void. That's still with me. And the dreams where my two realities -that I left behind in Caracas so many years ago and that which I live now in this grey, cold, soggy island of Britain- mix and intertwine. But I seldom seem to find the energy to put it down in words any more. Maybe I just channel it in other ways, into other things. Those dreams, however, are an important part of my life to me, without any need to get into interpreting or translating them into what my brain may be 'really' trying to tell me -I'm not that -or not that often- interested in that. I'm interested in them as part of my story.