Whenever I have stayed by the sea, my dreams arrive like a flood.
And for some reason, I’m dreaming in blue, the colour of jazz, or a Marian feast or the sea behind black rocks or or the Himalayan blue poppy or the colour of a baby’s eyes.
In the dreams I am diving down to where the mermaids live, undergoing a sea change of some kind. Hopefully into something rich and strange, as Shakespeare puts it in The Tempest.
Last night I was rude to my housemate, snapping at her quite inexcusably. I cannot think what it was, except for the fierce heat. Our neighbours came ovr and we all sat out under olive trees in the blue blue dusk, admiring the puppies and waiting for the fish to grill. It was a very enjoyabl evening and free from any festive season strain.
Afterwards, my housemate and I washed up and dried the dishes togetherand talked about work and the monthly budget and all of those unfun but necessary things.
She said to me: ‘Do you still think of yourself as an alcoholic? You never even seem to think about drinking.’
I sighed and said, well, yes, I did and I keep reminding myself of the fact because otherwise I might absently accept a glass of wine one evening and then find myself prowling around the house at 3am searching out hidden bottles and drinking myself into a coma. Emarrassing for Una to hear, but that is my reality.
All across the Western Cape there are veld fires raging. We talked about burning houses in Gordon’s bay, then went off to bed and sleep. I woke from a dream, not of diving in fathomless oceans, but a nightmare in which my ex-lover was burning down a church in which I was trying to pray. He was very pleased with himself and laughing. He said to a group of onlookers: ‘I’ve managed to destroy her faith in everything.’
Well, of course, the dream is not about the ex-lover at all. It is about me and my not knowing how to deal with my own anger.
And anger is such a source of energy, however uncomfortable it may be. Turned inward, my anger has always dulled to depression. So I need to get closer to whatever that anger is about, locate the hurt or frustration or injustice that relates to feeling angry and do some emotional archaeology. Do whatever it takes. Talk to someone.
I keep thinking of how storms come up at sea, out of nowhere, the storms that have ben blowing underwater, shaking the depths of the ocean invisibly. Then suddenly there are black waves and lightning and crashing breakers, masts snapping, ships upended or snapped like matchsticks. The volatile emotion of anger, so unpredicatble nd so uncomfortable to tolerate. It cn’t be pushed away but it is not an emotion that can be controlled. And yet it has the same liberating and truthful charcter as the other passions, powerful and transformative. Somewhere the poet Adrienne Rich writes about: ‘Anger and tenderness, my two polarities…’
Whenever I have stayed besie the sea, my dreams arrive like a flood.
And for some reason, I’m dreaming in blue, the colour of jazz, or a Marian feast or the sea behind black rocks or or the Himalayan blue poppy or the colour of a baby’s eyes.
In the dreams I am diving down to where the mermaids live, undergoing a sea change of some kind. Hopefully into something rich and strange, as Shakespeare puts it in The Tempest.
Last night I was rude to my housemate, snapping at her quite inexcusably. I cannot think what it was, except for the fierce heat. Our neighbours came ovr and we all sat out under olive trees in the blue blue dusk, admiring the puppies and waiting for the fish to grill. It was a very enjoyabl evening and free from any festive season strain.
Afterwards, my housemate and I washed up and dried the dishes togetherand talked about work and the monthly budget and all of those unfun but necessary things.
She said to me: ‘Do you still think of yourself as an alcoholic? You never even seem to think about drinking.’
I sighed and said, well, yes, I did and I keep reminding myself of the fact because otherwise I might absently accept a glass of wine one evening and then find myself prowling around the house at 3am searching out hidden bottles and drinking myself into a coma. Emarrassing for Una to hear, but that is my reality.
All across the Western Cape there are veld fires raging. We talked about burning houses in Gordon’s bay, then went off to bed and sleep. I woke from a dream, not of diving in fathomless oceans, but a nightmare in which my ex-lover was burning own a church in which I was trying to pray. He was very pleased with himself and laughing. He said to a group of onlookers: ‘I’ve manged to destroy her faith in everything.’
Well, of course, the dream is not about the ex-lover at all. It is about me and my not knowing how to deal with my own anger.
And anger is such a source of energy, however uncomfortable it may be. Turned inward, my anger has always dulled to depression. So I need to get closer to whatever that anger is about, locate the hurt or frustration or injustice that relates to feeling angry and do some emotional archaeology. Do whatever it takes. Talk to someone.
I keep thinking of how storms co up at sea, out of nowhere, the storms that have ben blowing unerwater, shaking the depth of the ocan nvisibly. Then suddenly there are black waves and lightning and crashing breakers, masts snapping, ships upended or snapped like matchsticks. The volatile emotion of anger, so unpredicatble nd so uncomfortable to tolerate. It cn’t be pushed away but it is not an emotion that can be controlled. And yet it has the same liberating and truthful charcter as the othr passion,. Somewhere the pot Adrienne Rich writes about: ‘Anger and tenderness, my two polarities…
And just writing these lines, the blu o wider oceans sweeps through my consciousness. Trusting the journey.
And just writing these lines, the blu o wider oceans sweeps through my consciousness. Trusting the journey.
Posted by louisey 