Friday, 13 July 2012
Colours were my dreams of last night. They come back to me piece by piece, as if real memories of snippets from yesterday's waking day.
I remember infiltrating the dining room of a high end hotel, where in the centre of the quiet tableclothed room was a table with a modest medley of tartlets upon it. The tartlets were exquisitely made and mesmerizing - ther colors gleamed and set each other off beautifully. I remember taking a bite out of one and putting it back on the table before commiting to a flat blueberry tartlet with gleaming silver-blue fruits embedded in it. The blue was the color of pale houses in Morocco, the hue of color-washed stone subseuently bleached by the sun. It was languid and sensual. As I took the tartlet, I overheard a small crowd of British business men and women talking over dinner, dressed in evening wear but still looking as if they were in the office. They were talking in that know-it-all, matter of fact way that charmless Brits can pull off so well. And the woman was saying, "Yes, but it's not like you don't have any control over the time you die." She seemed to be arguing that lifestyle and having will to live made the individual a sort of master of his own death.
In another dream, I had a baby in my arms. I was walking naked around a busy mall, but nobody was paying attention to me. I awkwardly breast-fed my newborn on a bench and felt ashamed of how small my breasts were; I began to look around me and see if I could find a wet nurse among the crowd of shoppers to feed my child adequately. But I knew it was hopeless. The baby was very real in my arms, naked too. I felt it take milk from me. I was proud then. Then the baby shrank in size, and I hid her in the petals of a blue rose, as camouflage. Did I need to find clothes? Yes, it was me tht had to find clothes. I ran around the mall, trying not to spend too much time away from the baby, elplessly young on the bench within a flower, and suddenly in my hands were a hand e down, a second hand oversized orange cardigan made from wool. It was rough to the touch after so much washing, and I felt sad that I was responsible for putting something ugly next to her soft newborn skin. When I returned to the bench, a teenage girl and her friend were nosily prying into the flower petals, picking up the flower to look then dropping it callously when they couldn't see inside it. I reclaimed the flower and took the baby, clothing her. Then my mother appeared and said "You should have given her a name by now. Why, 'Orange' is perfect for her!" So the baby's name became Orange. Then T showed up, maybe drunk. He seemed angry that I hadn't come to find him, that I wasn't giving him enough attention and that we should leave the baby to look after herself. I felt guilty and torn in two directions, trying to please him but knowing that I was tied to looking after Orange. Then we were in the car, and he drove our vehicle into the oncoming traffic. The car collided with others and spun into the air.
