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the ghost-dogs

Can't wake, can't sleep. Jenny's dogs have changed since we were last here. Tubbs has grown old, a newer, fatter labrador called Buster has lurched in from a next door neighbour, and Polly? Well, Polly's in the flower bed. So she's got two new dogs, to fill out the company, white alsatians called Sacha and Jerome. Sacha is elegant and pure white, a true sport, with an inclination to rest her chin on things and stare up sadly with her big brown eyes. Jerome is vast and hairy, like a luteistic (sp?) wolf, his patterning picked out in pale wheat-white. They drift around like ghost dogs; Jerome is eerily quiet, but Sacha barks and croons and rurdles. They are continually larger than I expect them to be. Later we discover Jerome likes to jump into brambles and get so entangled he needs to be rescued. He goes home with blood spattered across his snowy face, which looks terribly dramatic, but we can't even find the scratch. He found a muddy hollow and is now cappuchino-couloured, black to his hocks, frothy white above. I tease them until they jump for my Action Sampler. Jump, ghost-wolf-monster-dogs, jump!

I had a dream this morning, I was straightening liriselei's robe before he had his portrait taken. He was wearing black, and a long chinese robe of gold brocade, with a pattern of dragons, clouds and bamboo houses in red, pink, gold, white and different shades of green. It had the softness and slight creasing of a second-hand garment, and I felt briefly jealous of L, who has the perfect figure for second-hand clothes.

Cornettos for pudding again. Good gravy! Generational ideas of decadance. Where is my luxury? Answer: in bed.

White light, white skies, white water, white dogs. We go for a walk, risk snow in an abandoned village called Ardmore grown through with Christmas Trees and over with moss. There are trees in all the houses. The path down to Ardmore Point is mossy and secretive. We hop between red-marked poles, rock to stream to broken tree. At the end of the point, I find a rusty post stuck into bare rock, and photograph it for my Mum who collects posts.

In one of the houses I find a slate and scratch a message on it, but I've already forgotten what I wrote. "Message" probably. I remember that I photographed Jerome, stood outside the door of a ruined house, like a ghost messenger in a strange dream.

Comments

( 2 worms — Feed the birds )
liriselei
28th Dec, 2001 12:16 (UTC)
portream
i do hope it was to be a drawn or painted portrait, rather than a photographic one ?
cleanskies
30th Dec, 2001 13:43 (UTC)
Re: portream
Quite so. It was for a painted portrait, full length, in a dim interior. You were standing on red persian carpets, with a dim gothic arch (a window?) above your head, on either side indistinct velvet hangings (curtains?) of no particular colour. You were lit with golden light (like a painter's idea of candle or lamp light) from a low point to .... er, your left.

That's all I remember except that the colours were ... very vivid and rich (doesn't do it justice) such a short dream but so bright.
( 2 worms — Feed the birds )