Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Dodger Dream

Last night I dreamt of Dodger. It’s weird because I haven’t seen him for months – though it’s true we were talking about him because The Love might see him soon in London. And he has been coming up on my screen saver. I miss him. We were in Adelaide and looking for honey at a market. I had been looking for this market for ages but could never find it. Dodger took me to it and when we got to the honey stand it was closing. There was no honey left. That was ok. The door to the theatre was there. We walked across the cobblestones to it. And we went in. Inside was a strange, plush, red rectangular vortex and we were high, high up looking over one of a million balconies. The actual balcony was formed like a cinema, with cinema seats. Only we didn’t look at a screen, we looked down past all the seats and off the edge, into the great centre of the vortex.

The Dodger and I took a seat in comfortable seats around the middle of the cinema. Nobody else was there.
We looked down.
Oh god, vertigo, I said.
Dodger was silent. The dizzy feeling was overwhelming. The only way to stem it was to keep your eyes fixed on the centre of the vortex which was a deep burgundy rectangle.
I’ve got to –
And he ran out with his hands over his mouth.
I knew the feeling. It always happened to me when I came to this theatre. It was Dodger’s first time. I felt like I was going to be sick too so I sidled my way towards the exit door, never taking my eyes of the centre of the vortex.
I was ok. I waited for Dodger. He was in the men’s. Then I was in the men’s too in the cubicle next to him. It was destabilising knowing that the toilet block was still inside the vortex theatre - that we weren’t safe yet, outside in the cobblestone market street. I wanted to get there, feel my feet on the ground.
Are you ok Dodge? I called through the wall.
Yes, he said, But my pants.
He exited the cubicle and he only had his shoes and socks on and his shirt, no pants.
Where did they go? I asked.
I don’t know, he said. He looked shaken.
We really should get out of here, I said and led him through a series of grey backstage corridors to the big heavy stage door which read EXIT. It was an imposing door. But it was the loveliest door I’d ever seen.
We exited into the cobblestone street. The daylight was blinding.

Artwork du jour 125


Monday, September 19, 2011

Night Terror and Normality

Last night I lay awake in terror. I couldn’t feel my legs the panic was so strong. Kiki hadn’t woken when she usually woke and I woke two hours after she usually woke and looked at the clock and thought:
Oh god.
She’s dead.
I know this is a common thing to think but it still feels shocking.
As an aside – doesn’t it drive you crazy how things you feel can be ‘justified’ as ‘normal’? Something absolutely terrifying such as thinking your child has died of cot death in the night, when brought up at mothers’ group is met with a chorus of
Normalnormalormal, yes, normal.
It’s not normal. It happened.
And what is normal?
As a further note to the aside, the reasoning/justifying/ of things in general makes me want to scream. Everything is true and random, surely? Even if it happens to lots of people. No?
I have to believe that or I will die. Otherwise we’re all the same, we’re all just animals. What’s the god damned point. I just have to believe in a small amount of magic/uniqueness.
Particularly infuriating encodings which spring to mind are:
At least it wasn’t sudden.
Oh well, she had a good innings.
Anyway - so I lay there in terror – not a sound from the baby monitor. Kiki likes to roll onto her belly in her cot now and all those awful voices saying ‘lies on front, cot death’ echoed in my head. Oh god, she’s dead.
And somewhere inside myself I knew she wasn’t dead but even the thought that the possibility existed that she might die caused my legs to disappear. I knew I could easily rectify the situation by getting up and checking on her. But I couldn’t move for the terror.
Finally I willed myself to standing and crept into her room. She had wriggled right down to the far end of the cot on her side, a piece of my torn striped t-shirt in her tiny fist buried deep in her face. She was still.
From the light of my phone she didn’t seem dead, but she wasn’t moving.
Before my legs gave way under me I held my hand out to her chest, buried deep under the wearable doona thing.
It moved.
A tiny, baby breath.
Relief. And though it was perhaps normal to feel such depths of gut-wrenching fear I tiptoed back to bed and felt I'd lived through something. Of course there was plenty to come. But that didn't stop it being real.

Artwork du jour 124

Sleeping Doll

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Abducted by a Project

Oops - I got abducted by a thing and won't be back for a little minute. Wait for me! I won't be long.