Dream

In response to ‘The Unbeliever’, a poem by Elizabeth Bishop

Dream. Hard not to think of D-ream, things can only get better. Tony Blair. Cheesy grin. High on the top of a mast, hoisted up by eager crowds hoping for a glimpse of dawn, only to come crashing down, to earth, to the reality of leaden feet, clay cast. Clay. Suddenly I am with the clay, with the boxes in my supposed art space that has become a dumping place not just for my art materials but some other miscellany – a bivvy bag that needs waterproofing dreaming of sleeping under the stars, compost from my old wormery to repot my plants, dreaming of rooting in fertile earth, of expansion. Colourful threads and strands of wool waiting to be knitted, felted, into a coherent piece, dreaming of the interest of others, of admiration, of being seen. And behind these, the bags of clay, starting to dry out, harden with neglect, and the boxes of flux and glaze, unopened; afraid to get close, to touch what was once eminently touchable and now has become the untouchable. Back to Tony Blair, everyone wanting to shake his hand, be in the flow of victory, now the outcast, shunned, shudders running through the memory of that clasped palm. Once I made some ceramics – well twice or three times really – no even that’s not true. I have had at least four distinct ceramic periods – as a child, at home with my toy wheel and in school building on a flattened surface, recycling the squelch, up to my elbows in it. Then after university, some careful coiling of wayward pots, widening erratically. Then when I became ill – a ripe period – undulating structures emerging from where I could not say. Human forms inspired by trees. Something so precious I could hardly bear it.

once I had a dream

a dream of ice cream

they were simple days

the delight of cornish vanilla cornets. simple immediate happinesses.

once I had a dream.

I forgot it. I don’t remember quite what it was, but I know they are still there, gently lurking, ready to resurface. All that waiting when I was younger, to be older; and now I am older, I am waiting for the younger dreams to return.

it’s not simplicity, although there is a purity to the simple vision, clarity, direction; now I know, somewhat, how to get things done, how to move my way, and the power of adulthood, the independence, the volition -

but there is so much murk between here and there.

so much happened.

and the confusion and distraction. we were told so many things. how to behave, what to do, what is right and wrong. Well they had our best interests at heart, either that or they had their best interests at heart.

here I am, sometime later, and I dream

I dream of clarity and simplicity I dream of knowing what to do, how to grasp again the dynamism and confidence that got thrashed away through the day-to- day, all those important things, obscuring the important thing.

I dream, I believe, I still believe in me, I always believed in me, even though the voice was often quiet, and the dream does not have to be big.

it can be a simple dream, of a peaceful heart

of a kindness, of kindnesses

it can be a dream of peaceful sleep

and a happy open morning

starting the day

afresh

with a clear blue sky and long vistas

green revealing fields rolling off

the hills, and turquoise rising out of the

beating sea. I dream awake, I dream step-by- step, present to the now, and grateful to the past, but not tied to it, for it is gone. today is my day and when the sun shines and when the sun sets

whether I am awake or asleep I dream

I dream good

I dream big

I dream slow

I dream

dreaming

ice creaming

you have to be there to enjoy it. remembering an ice cream is quite different to eating an ice cream, and, in any event, the cornish vanilla ice cream of 1971 are not made any more, they are gone

as is the tongue that tasted them

Do you still have dreams?

You walk around with churning thoughts in your head, spinning and spinning like a broken washing machine. This way, that way, trying to find a hold, some support, but the ground shakes and your feet bounce off the paving stones. Boom, boom, boom. Wake up. Come back. Night terrors. I can't breathe. Yes, of course you can. Its the feeling of falling before you let yourself go. Dream, now dream.

I remember a dream vividly from when I was a little girl. In our bathroom looking out the small window, I can see fireworks but I know it's something more serious than that. I call my mum. She comes in wearing a light grey jumper with sleeves much longer than they need to be. "It's the end of the world," she says, and flaps her arms up and down with an insane expression on her face. Her sleeves make her arms look like broken elastics. For some reason, it terrifies me. I wake up then. I often think about that dream, about my mother's face and her flapping arms. I don't know why it was so frightening at the time, whether it was the fact that the world was ending of my mother losing her mind. Without her sanity, where I would I be? Is that it? Can I really call my mother sane? That's a whole different subject and it's got nothing to do with dreaming.

Do I have dreams still? I think I only long for what I know is possible. But I dream. I still dream when I'm asleep.

Asleep in a curled up baby The elephant lost its task The angel asked for a pardon And Pete’s horse rode to the last “I haven’t a penny to give you Nor a shame to guide your light I’m at the end of the gilded change That you deem to be your right.” So lock up care in a cobweb Leave my prayers to me For while I strive to be goodness I’ve an elephant coming to tea Useless feels with the teapot Eloquence charging ahead A thousand stars and a hundred sons Are bouncing right out of my head. Leave my answers unanswered Ask my prayers to relent The meaning chasm is open And the drum beats on in my head Hand on heart I believe you Lissom I wait in the dark Your tongue tells me of angels And levels my head to my heart Pour me a wicked libation Take this conversation to new heights I have a handle on goodness And you have a handle on might At night in the theatre of providence Lightness is given to strength Pour my libation on darkness And leave me alone till I’m dead.

Some say that I live in a dream, that I’m more comfortable in the past, in fantasy land. There’s an element of truth in this. I accept that I spend considerable time in the company of those who no longer accompany my life’s journey. There’s nothing disrespectful of those with whom I share the here and now. They teach me as we go forward, yet lack some of the clarity of the guides of long ago. I need to understand and question what is newly said by those who do not argue with the dead.