The woman in my dream had an heart-shaped face of eerily smooth perfection. She turned to me with a smile, the beautiful planes and curves of her face making me think of mannequins, make-up, girls in the photos in magazines. In the bright light I had the sudden illusion that she was eyeless and I thought that maybe she was talking to me because she was blind, and then she opened her eyes. It was like a special effect unfolding. From under epicanthric folds so pronounced they hid all hint of eyelid her eyes emerged, wide and deep and dark with a smile for me. She loved my work, she admired my stuff, this creature of surreal beauty was here because she wanted to talk to me.
Damian found this very useful and practical device online. Mmm. Dinotastic!
Tshshshshhhsss ... Tshshshshhhsss ... Tshshshshhhsss ... Tshshshshhhsss ... I've left the others behind, sunning themselves on the sea wall, and come down here to where I'm alone except for a swimmer determinedly paddling back and forth, groyne to groyne. I'm sat as close as I can be to the low sea, watching tiny waves die at my feet, the sea filling my eyes and the noise of them filling my head. Water on pebbles, pebbles on pebbles, rubbing each other over and over. There's a pebble of glass, glittering sandblasted white, under my hand, too big to be part of a bottle or any sheet of glass. What was it? The heavy bottom of a bowl? A paperweight? Art? My sister will be impatient soon and want me back from the sea. A single yacht sits on the silver horizon, pretending not to move. I should like nothing better than to walk the sea-edge back to town, over groynes (don't climb on the groynes) and past dog walkers, past the ruined West Pier and the evolving seafront sculptures into town. What's the point of coming to the beach if you don't come here, where there's nothing but the sound of the sea, the dazzling sight, the smell of it? I turn and return, goodbye to the sea. I'm not here for me.
Later in the dream, paying for a bus ticket and getting back a £5 coin in my change, polyhedral and almost too big to fit in the change pocket of my purse.
(overheard as I wrote) ... so, I lay back in the canoe with my eyes closed when suddenly the sun went out so I opened me eyes and there, about a hundred feet above me, the size of a SOFA was a Golden Eagle ...
A sign on a hand dryer in a café toilet: Electronic control and air re-circulation make this the most hygienic way to dry your hands.
At the offices I work in they've put paving slabs over this bit of flat roof over reception which used to get puddles and, occasionally, ducks. I don't know why, no-one can walk up there, maybe they just don't like ducks.
Earlier in the dream, a curiously antisexual moment as the guy whose house it was (some 40+ artist dude -- we'd been at the party at his place for a couple of days by this stage) crawled into the high platform bed I'd crashed in and woke me up by wrapping himself round me. Time to get up, he murmured into my ear, and then crawled out from under the blanket. It was only then that I realised that he was naked apart from an unbuttoned dark turquoise shirt. He shot me a smile -- not sexy or shameless, more like someone caught doing something a bit naughty, swiping a cake or sneaking a peek -- and pushed off the side of the bed, landed heavily on the floor, and stalked from the room.
I just pulled a small iceberg out of the fridge. Self-defrosting my arse.