When the going gets stressful, the stressful get resourceful and a little off-kilter. I am trying to revive a sourdough starter from the bottom of the fridge. If it works I shall have a semi-rye sourdough bread in three days time. If not, I shall have a fizzy mess of wild yeasts and will have wasted a kilo or more of expensive stoneground flour.
Pollens whirl around in the chilly wind and many people in the village have hayfever. I can hear my neighbour sneezing as she hangs out washing. Why is she hanging out her washing so late in the day? I must go and peer over the fence. Nosiness is how human societies come to be glued together in curiosity and concern.
My Internet has slowed to snail speed. And I have to write about speculative finance and commodity fetishism and all kinds of odd subjects. Is there life after Google?
Last night I had a dream about a man I lived with when I was 19. In the dream we were together in a guesthouse with more bathrooms than bedrooms and the guests wandered in and out of rooms wrapped in towels, searching for somewhere to lie down. I had a dog that was small and wicked, running away when he was called, a little red ferret of a dog. The man I loved was young again, 23, smiling and pleased to see me, but his eyes were firmly shut, so I had no idea if he knew who I was. When I woke up I wished I could speak dream. There is a mysterious dream language that is so intensely personal and indecipherable.