Tuesday, November 22

I’ll Call You In The Morning

I awoke from the nightmare, not with a start, but gently, as though I sighed myself so. My room was dark, far from black, yet dark and faintly illumined by leaks of light pollution through the blinds. The dream had been of my ex and that she was dead. She was bare-shouldered, and had her back to me, turned slightly to the side, shielding her small breasts with her arms. She was weeping mascara down her magnificent jaw. She looked at me, and said—‘Sorry, I’m dead.’ That is when I woke up, not with a start, but gently, as though I sighed myself so.
So familiar was I with her tears and her voice that in my dream she was very clear to me. Why was she sobbing so?
In the dream I wept. When I awoke, I was weeping too, and, brushing them away, I felt how cool the tears were on the warmth of my sleepful fingers. Not moving an inch I lay there and measured my breaths. My eyes were fully awake, unperturbed. Shortly I began to think of her and of the way things turned out; then all of my thoughts became dreams once more, as slowly a glacier moves and slowly it swallows everything.
In my next dream I pictured my mother. She told me—‘I’ll call you in the morning.’ Again I awoke –to a piercing alarm – and remembered that it had been a dream. Strangely I was lifted by my mother’s voice, imagined or otherwise, and was sure she would call me.
When evening came I expected a call, attributing psychic foresight to myself, but when no call came, I became despondent and entirely glum. I sat down to paint but a series of errors, poor judgments, turned the painting terrible. What a waste! I cast it aside. I would start on another, immediately. I could not waste a second if I was to begin again. Something different, something bigger. If I was going to fail over and over, then I would have to attempt something much larger. As a child, navigating my pencil across the 80gm paper of my primary school, my teacher commented that I drew too small. I would show them; I would work larger! I got a canvas and put it down and drew. Of course my skills had not corrected themselves. Such a struggle! My whole body shook. Trying to calm myself was no use. I would even grab my one arm with the other in an effort to steady it. Rubber shavings, like nits, crowded my crotch and my desk. Finally I had it down, I thought. I stepped away and scrutinised the portrait. Hm, this was too long, this made the lady look broad, hm, this must be changed in an instant, ah her eyes are wonky!
After dinner I noticed that her right side was sixteen millimetres too far to the right. I corrected it straight away because in eleven hours I would have to go back to work (and then there is dealing with the arousal that painting stirs up in me; not nonsense, because I have discussed it with respected members of society, but yes painting is, to me, a grand dance with the libido so that I often have to break and retreat to my bed for an hour).
Satisfied – having carved the queen of clubs – I thought, no, I could not last the night unless I wrote. Such was my newfound optimism that I was flooded with words! I had to put them down. And here I am.
Then it became crystal clear: if I were to regain confidence in my own prose, then I would have to note down the minutiae of life, regardless of how uninteresting it was. Gone is my youth when I found everything remarkable. Now I am in my thirties and time rises to fill my lungs and choke the life out of me. I must act now! I wrote it all down and felt better than I expected to. The night was not a waste.

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