From Grace

Last night I dreamed I sprouted golden dragonfly wings,  I often fly in my dreams but it’s usually a strange, half-swimming through the silky lightness of the air; I jump once, twice, three times and bob upwards in floating fits and starts like a balloon whose string has been let go by a distracted child. This was different. As the wings unfurled I was launched into the sky as though fired from a gun. I soared above a familiar field, dotted with the pale freckles of dawn mushrooms. I realised the clouds could part like silver hair being brushed away from the planet’s face and I could go anywhere, trailing glittering dust and liquid light like a meteor.

Then I fell back to earth, wings torn on tree branches and stray farm wire, dismayed at my own limitations. I woke up sighing.

IMG_2804

Racing With the Rising Tide to my Father’s Door

In my dream, because odd, mystical little pockets of my subconscious are the one consistent thing in my life, I’m up to my waist in the sway of the sea. I can feel my legs fighting the sweep to and fro as the waves race each other to break their hearts on the shore; it reminds me again how powerful, how full of nature’s raw force, is something as clear and soft and submissive as water.

Christ wades in, the ocean moving like silk around him. I smile even in sleep because I remember how this man is no stranger to the sea and wonder why he doesn’t simply stand upon the surface as it whispers and shushes around us, then I think of baptism and purifying baths from time and temples immemorial and remember that in some ways we must be like children to enter the kingdom of Heaven, and I imagine he enjoys playing in the sea as much as the next wayward kid. He is wearing a plain robe that must have once been white, some kind of flax or rough linen, now rusty with red dust. We both look at the horizon, a long line of indigo melting into a strangely coloured sky that isn’t day or night.

CJfK0fBW8AAHVu5

A silence that is not silence blooms; that feeling you get when you are with a dear friend and there’s no need to communicate with something as clumsy as words when a smile, a raised brow, the click of the kettle’s switch will do. Christ and I rarely talk in these strange little visions of mine, but that doesn’t mean nothing is said. The keening, echoing cry of the gulls comes, arcing across the water like dry ice.

He tells me in the silence that I will have to be brave, that I cannot be afraid of emptiness, and I feel rage bubbling up like lava in my gullet because I am done being brave, I have spent years in the exile of emptiness, I have wasted my life treading water in this lonely ocean and I will not crawl any further on bleeding knees, I will not come to you with wounds weeping vinegar, I will not be broken I will not I will not Thou shalt not…

He says nothing, merely watches the water, but I think he understands.

The tide turns. Now the pull is back to the sea and I feel my legs protest against being dragged out into that roiling void where monsters propel themselves through the black canyons at crushing depth. I stand firm with the rough tongue of the the sand against my soles and turn to look at the man beside me but Christ has gone, as quietly and unobtrusively as a feather falling to earth. The water whispers its ceaseless, primordial lullaby, the sky has darkened to the violet glaze of perpetual sunset.

Above my head, the gulls laugh.

Red or Blue

In my dream, Christ is painting his nails again.

We’re sitting on a park bench placed incongruously in desert sands, behind us, a vast stone has been rolled away from a tomb carved into solid rock, revealing nothing but cool darkness. One of his hand sports arterial crimson, the other a shimmering blue-green that reminds me of the ocean. He holds them up, waggles his fingers.

‘Which one, d’you think?’

I point wordlessly at the kingfisher blue. He nods thoughtfully, hair catching the sun in glints of electric jet. The rattle of palm leaves sounds above us, when I look up they’re like blades of jade against the pale sky.

‘Very interesting, you know that says a lot about you as a person.’

‘Don’t try and psych 101 me, Jesus.’ I say. He laughs, a burst of something loud and joyful and carefree…Whenever he appears in my dreams Christ laughs more often than, to my knowledge, he is ever given credit for.

We sit kicking our heels under the trees for a while. At some point, Christopher Walken joins us. He picks the crimson red nail polish, Jesus and I exchange a significant look.

CiuZRK3W0AAv7pV

When I wake, it’s to the sound of the buses beginning their endless circuit of this town. I get up, make breakfast, swallow new pills designed to keep my Picasso brain in check again. I spend a lot of my days drifting in and out of consciousness at the moment because of the side effects, I’m told they won’t last too long. I am six months sober and clinging on to awareness like someone in a plane crash wondering if clouds could break their fall; it reminds me horribly of taking opiates, that struggling to surface like a fish with scales of iron.

Later at a meeting someone who heard my first main share last week, and oh boy was it as depressing as I told you it probably would be…

‘I drank because I am alive, but I didn’t want life; not adulthood with its loss and responsibilities and exit wounds…I still don’t know if I do…’

…Comes up and gives me a hug. They know I went into hospital the morning after that share because I wanted to kill myself; I’ve only just taken the plastic band of A&E baggage reclaim off my wrist. I get a mouthful of well-meaning angora jumper drenched in Chanel and her fingernails catch the light like swarming ladybirds, they are streaked the same bright poppy red of Christ’s right hand.

I think, Fuck you, Christopher Walken.

Milagro

Once when I was alone in Italian fields I saw a spirit on a Palamino horse. A female spirit in smooth white linen and in my vision I knew she was called Milagro. I waited as she rode straight towards me, whole body trembling like an arrow about to fly out from between someone’s fingers but when she was foot or so away she vanished, leaving a cool halo of misty air around my face like a cloud of flour settling on the swaying yellow grasses.

My windows are open to the night and to the smell of all the flowers that have gone to bed or are still up, sipping honey rain water from the ground like coffee. I don’t really sleep despite the chemicals I wash down every night with filtered water. Sometimes I drift into a half-awakening and go and visit that beautiful and terrible city in my liminal dreams that I call Somnopolis – go visit its surreal cathedral and walk long, polished aisles inhaling candle smoke and furniture polish. Watch the junkies on the kerb shoot up lucidity.

img_1435

Writing is an occupation full of jangling hours, like the minutes are silent windchimes telling you another silent storm in your head is coming. The sky at dawn here is a mass of shifting violet with silent Roe deer grazing in the green fields and I always felt at my most alive in the dawn, connected to the world wide wisdom while the energy is fresh and undiluted by car horns and plastic and advertising. I rise with the mist from the waking grass, I am the steam pouring from the backs of the brown herd.

When I was a kid I’d walk down to the farm and talk to the horses the sky was that star-freckled watercolour. Take an apple for the sleepy amber mare in the long field, she was a true gentlewoman in ginger and ash blonde with velvet nostrils the colour of cinnamon, wholesome animal breath curling away into the minerals given up by the soft soil.

Stroke her coarse, bone-pale mane. remember the bleached robe of the miraculous spirit. Give the fruit to those blunt teeth in grateful communion, because the wine in the heart of the apple is sweet.

Liminal

In the dream (because I am still dreaming odd, impossible dreams) I am running down a naked road at night, taxiing down it like a plane in the muted glow of the the dim streetlights; and my foot hits the ground in one decisive smack, propelling me into the air, and I’m suddenly back in the lucid indigo sleep of my childhood full of these secret flights. I rise quickly, grinning and giddy, my arms out at my sides. I know I can go anywhere, anywhen; open those doors hidden between seasons and orbiting stars and behind the rain and leap.  I turn as the wind streams around my limbs, thinking of a name…The scenery streaks past me like messy oil paint until I arrive…But I can’t find them in the great green field I’m standing in, butter-bright sun lighting up the grasses.

I feel myself settle back into my skin. Someone is next to me, sitting on the sofa blanket. I open my eyes suddenly, and now no one is there. Sometimes that happens, someone, something, follows me back. I hate these things; chittering, scrabbling creatures sniffing around the melting candle of my wandering spirit.

As a child, I never knew whether these nocturnal journeys were simply the whorls of my brain processing the day or if I was always lifting out of myself like smoke; so lightly tethered to my own flesh that falling asleep was one long, easy exhalation out of my own mouth. Ectoplasmic, mystical, free.

IMG_0653 (1)

Now, for some reason, they’re back. I close my eyes and find myself in the ocean, or between the clouds, or standing in an unknown city; all reflections, clean metal and blown glass. Sometimes I visit places more than once – the graveyard with tombs engraved in a language I’ve never seen; the chapel that changes historical period every time I’m there; the grove of tall firs with a granite throne, covered in moss and ivy; the city, of course – always that golden glass citadel, temple bells ringing; saffron-yellow silk hanging from the doors and windows.

I don’t know; perhaps the fragile-fingered grip on my own sanity is loosening again. These explorations between dimensions mean I don’t sleep well, barely rest. Is it spiritual? Is it mental? I no longer know…I just desire a dreamless night, the cells of my body calmly soaking up the hours. If anyone knows how to stay nestled safely within your own soft shell, let me know.

Dreamscape

The journey to and from the south is gruelling, despite the beauty of the French countryside. Seven hours on the first train, buoyed up by bottles of cheap wine. The sea was so blue, as we rushed past the coast, it felt as though I could have reached through the window glass and come away with paint all over my fingertips.

I miss the sun already; the way it looks slanting through the long pines of the forest. The silence broken only by birdsong; the rush of cool, silky water on my skin. I miss how clean the air feels, wildflowers and tree resin and warm rain, as fresh as Eden. My head is still thrumming with a week of strange dreams; they slumber behind my eyes, serpentine, waiting for analysis.

I dreamed I hired an anonymous room in the city to live out a secret life.

I dreamed my tattoos washed off in the rain.

I dreamed of a woman in a pale wax death mask.

I dreamed the Devil dyed my shoes and hair red.

CiBDD8yXIAADCtg

This place is an incubator for such things. I said once that this was somewhere full moons bred empty beds, somewhere it’s easy to feel alive. The nights are so clear that the stars are almost shocking; so many and so bright, they seem to rush at you in a dizzying wave, as though the sky were tilting.

Cip-NqCXAAAV88Y
CirHM-rWUAAZzpy
IMG_2597_zpsb47bc79a
The jasmine flowers are just beginning to open, spilling that distinct, heavy perfume through the kitchen door. If you’re lucky, you’ll see a black, fat-bellied lizard crawling in staccato fits and starts over the walls. Everything in the garden is a startling green, crushed emerald grass freckled with blue and white petals. The roses – soft and full and powder pink – nod their drowsy heads in the breeze, also dreaming.