Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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colour dreams

Hmf. The heating bust again this morning. So much for bodge jobs.

Cycling into work today, fetched up behind someone at the lights at the bottom of Longwall Street, thought, yeah, she has racing tyres, she'll be quick. And what strange shoes she has. Quite out of style with her hair. She looks like a graduated tint, from femme to butch. The lights changed, and she cycled slowly ... not as slowly as the old men who cycle with their knees pointing out, but slowly, and then I noticed that her bike frame was painted green and yellow, just like the tyres. She'd picked them for their colour ... I stuck behind her (the effect was pretty nice, and overtaking on Longwall Street isn't my idea of fun) and this huge guy zoomed by, big black hat, huge grey jacket and urban combats and a matching big tall black-white-grey-silver bike frame, what a co-ordinated morning. Then I saw a girl in the most amazing green coat, with a bright red back slung over her shoulder (seasonal and stylish!) and then another with a coat in the perfectest shade of sky blue, and wondered, is it in my eyes, or the world? But then I saw a woman wearing a red coat, and the red was just an ordinary red, dull and non-committal. It must have been that all those people I cycled past were wonderfully stylish and had great eyes for colour. And the light, of course, thin bright winter sunshine, the perfect light for colour.

Going over the bridge, I glanced sideways through the leaves and saw the white japanese-style bridge through the leaves, and suddenly a mass of feelings and thoughts slid through my head, utterly alien to me. It faded quickly, like a dream -- something about a lady sat on a mat looking out through a low window and seeing no-one on the bridge (again), and this making her sad (he will not come again). Very strange this effect --- often I get the feeling that the world is a densely-packed mass of thoughts, impressions, memories, memes (call them what you will) and all I am is a recoding* device blundering through dreamtime, occasionally being played on by the thoughts that can use me.

* I meant recording, of course.

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