Tue Feb 14th, 2017
Have had pleasant dreams lately, one in which we (for dream definitions of 'we') moved into a large house with ever-expanding rooms and ever-expanding definitions of 'us'. No real people I can name, but a motley family of familiar friends anyway.
Last night, more specifically, I was foot-loosing it about Europe. incandescens said I could stay at her parents' place since they were away in Majorca or somewhere. House was England-of-a-certain-era: pale brown wood and buff walls, surrounded by willows and poplars and greenery, skies were always grey, and everything was close to, if not indeed part of, a market of enclosed stalls on either side of narrow lanes. On the second day her parents came home unexpectedly to find me living in their house. Were quite civil about it, served me tea, and thereafter ignored me completely. 'Ah,' I thought, 'this is English good manners.' (Possibly they'd cottoned to the fact I was not quite respectable, because I went about the market stalls stealthily removing sweets from the candy- or possibly manju- boxes for sale.)
I wish my parents' house was like that and in such surroundings. That'd be very nice indeed. :)
I've tried to think where I knew this house from, with no success. Some influence may be from Lamb's painting of Lytton Strachey, if all the greenery were moved closer to the windows.
|Date:||February 15th, 2017 03:17 pm (UTC)|| |
That is a lot nicer than the recurring dream I had where I am stuck in a windowless and doorless grey stoned mansion with ivy growing on one wall and I'm on a lift platform and there're cranks/cogwheels/levers on the third floor. I'm doing my best to turn the cranks this way and that ... because somehow I know that in the basement there are cylinders that need to be filled with sand. Just that the handles have to be turned, the levers pushed and pulled on in a certain way, so that the cylinders fill in the correct order ... and then I can get out. I had the dream, three days running. ON the third day I wake up tired (but I'm now on the first floor) and recount the dream to the family at breakfast. I haven't had the dream again since. Partly glad because ... well no one likes to be imprisoned in an inescapable house, but partly annoyed, because now I'll never know if I ever got myself out of that place.
My brain ... it's weird sometimes.
The sort of dream one can do without- but three days running?!! Yikes!
If you didn't manage it in three days, I don't think it was manageable.
|Date:||February 16th, 2017 04:39 am (UTC)|| |
I would gladly join you in a shared house, and even have tea and biscuits with you.
That would be delightful! (sighs) Why must NAmerica be so *big*?
(Trump's handlers are suggesting moving his reception from London to, maybe, Birmingham to avoid protesters, and the Brits are saying 'Crikey, London to Birmingham is a *commute* in the States. Have they no idea how small England is?'
|Date:||February 17th, 2017 05:00 am (UTC)|| |
It's a long commute, but definitely not out of the question. LOL!