A Dort S'lection of Shreams / 18 February 2016
She said when she slept she slept in a shack surrounded by the outdoors. All she knew for sure was that the wind blew and then the wind blew some more, harder and harder still, until such time as the foundations shook and the walls buckled and the nails came loose and the timbers bent, came off one by one and flew away. And as the house, the shack, was shaking she'd become ever more, acutely, aware that she was on the toilet with her knickers around her ankles and that she just couldn't reach them.
He was glad she had told him of this recollection as it reminded him he had a shack of his own. It was snowing and he hadn't got to the shack yet but the closer he got the more aware he became that he was being pursued by an ugly great bear and that he shouldn't let the bear know that he lived there - in that shack; but he was too close to it now. So he started to run around it and he would look back from corner to corner to see if the bear was still following and it always was. So he'd run faster and looking down at the ground, he could see his and the bears tracks in the snow and he'd just know the circles of tracks were taking him further and further away from the shack. So he ran faster, the fastest yet, the fastest ever and before long he lost that bear. So, as soon as he could he bolted for the door, slammed it shut and with gasping breath he put his back to the door before looking up and guess what?. Looking straight ahead he saw the bear was already in the room, looking at him and licking his lips. That is the bear was licking his own lips. Not the mans. The bear never ever got that close.
For her the stream had started with the injury that laid her low, put her prostrate. It came with the voyeurs, the professional questioners, who poked, who prodded, who desired to be inside her mind. "Can you feel this", "How about this?", "How does this feel?", "Can you feel this?", "Can you feel?"
His stream came from a different place but the same place too. A fear of a real experience. He'd relive it with the same bastard bear that lived there in the institution, day after monotonous day. The bear would always be there even though the centre was now closed. There, somewhere, somehow, inveigling his way in with craft and menace.
Its different for me but similar. I am as they say a survivor. I've come through it, lived my life and adapted to being on the other side but its like this.... I journey, I travel through landscapes I create for myself. Fields; plouged or unploughed, roads usually lanes, trees behind fences made of barbed wire where falcons sit on posts, cafeterias that sell the very best baklewell tarts; and sometimes I can even take a friend along for the ride, enjoying showing him the marvellous places I've made, but then I realise, Stonehenge wasn't built in a dimple on a hillock in a lake. What if its not there anymore, what if i shouldn't have moved it, what if they ask me why i did it, what about if i can't remember what i put where or how I got there and what if I never ever find my way back to the shack, what if the wind blows and what if there's a bear.
These are our anxiety dreams. We'd love to hear yours.