Kind of getting away: 4

So I’m having the same dream again. This tells me that I’ve properly adjusted to the place. At least that is the meaning I have given to it. Should I ask for more? I don’t dare, not yet.

I’m standing on a shore and there is a vast creature that is coming through the water towards me. A tiny, pitted, bulbous body, shiny in a metallic way, propped on eight many-jointed legs, hooked at their ends. The entire scene is grey. The legs go up so high that the body is in the clouds, kilometres up. The legs come out of the body nearly horizontal but then bend downwards sharply. The creature might be wading through the ocean or walking on top of it. Its movement is ancient and jerky. One leg moves at a time, or two. But no more. It might be alive.

This has become a shared ritual between my mind and I. It is a naked relationship. Our expressions are only ever blunted. I wonder what the message is, this time.

Now that I think about it, this is not in fact the first time I have dreamt on Tokata. The night after the storm I did have a dream. It’s interesting how dreams are so difficult to remember. They’re always there but I find that I need something to remind me that they even happened. What I have now is this image:

I am on a shore yet again. But this is a different shore. Or maybe it is the same shore but the water has gone away, has retreated or wandered up some snarl of rivers and simply forgotten to come back. So the sand goes on nearly to the horizon. There’s a huge ship, an oil tanker[1], stranded on the shore, pointed straight at me. It is old. The bottom half of it has been painted red; the upper is grey. Mute calligraphies of rust come down its side. It is not quite falling apart yet. I can remember this quite clearly, actually. I don’t know why, but this is very clear: scrawls quietly going down the great flanks of metal. Pouring out of the hawsepipes. There is something intimate about rust, and that is true here also. Even though I am standing quite far away from the ship I remember looking up at it. It must have been big. Maybe too big, about a hundred metres in height. A small section of the bulbous bow has collapsed. A sound comes. It is like a foghorn, loud and distant. Now life erupts out of the hole in the bow, a mass as solid as basalt. Animals, things with eyes and mouths and teeth and things without, all pouring out. Lithe things lope away across the flats. The sand churns. Winged things shriek, taut with antipathy, and go into the sky. Their sound is a giant whisper. Soft things bubble out of the hole like viscera and writhe on the drying sand. Invertebrate agonies. Huge objects loll out of that hole, expanses of shining skin made limp out of water. Forked tongues go hesitant into the air. A bellow lumbers out across the sand. Nameless muscular things fan out from the ship, moving as if unfamiliar with their own weight. Slit pupils glare without blinking at the sun. The sun is setting, I think, and the water is red, the air is rosy, the sky very high and limned everywhere with amber. Warm colours to cope with all that atmosphere.

I have realised something. I mean right now, at this precise moment, as I write this. Just imagine – if I had not written this, this would never have occurred to me. What I now know, and this is certain, is that this is a gift. This has been given. And I am supposed to receive it. I must go out and receive it.

Is this the Wash? I cannot remember clearly enough to tell. It might be the Wash, but the Wash is not so dry, maybe. This might be the Wash at the lowest tide. I don’t know.

One more thing about this dream I had in the tent after the storm. But this is not that unique. It’s happened to me several times and I don’t worry about it. But I was lying there, in the dark, and my eyes were closed. And there was something all around me, breathing, a fraction of a millimetre from my skin, walling me off from everything else. I didn’t know how to react to it because it had no real signature. It was not menacing or anything else. It was an imagined thing. I think everyone gets that feeling sometimes, actually. Or maybe that’s not true. That’s possible. I have every right to assume that there is something different about me.

[1] I think it’s an oil tanker. I have a picture in my head and I’ve looked it up.

Kind of getting away: 2

It’s November here. There’s no particular reason to call it November, but that’s what it’s called. I think it’s because of the trees here, always looking like it’s autumn. When we came we went with October straightaway, so now it’s November. It’s a good enough reason.

The sun has finally come out after about two days of cloud. At this moment right beside me there comes a surgical slit of light that illumes a soft fume of dust. I did not plan to do anything this morning so I went out and looked over the Wash. The idea grey is not at all simple and the Wash shows that. This morning it steamed like flat metal, like mercury. It really does go on and on. Not very far out there were two seahawks, nearly but not quite out of sight. I sat and watched them for some time. I watched them diving in the air. That’s not the right word, actually, diving. But that’s the problem. How do I convey this? This sense of movement. What I can say is that it gives me a sense in which this place, this entire place, is fundamentally unwreckable. It’s a strange, unjointed kind of movement. We’re just not used to thinking in three dimensions. We know of the three dimensions but we have never actually occupied them. That’s why it’s just not possible to look at that movement and understand it. The understanding comes a moment immediately after. But as I stood there looking at the seahawks actually move I didn’t understand it at all. Wings tremulously feeling out an element with whom the relationship does not quite rise to trust. A whiffle and then a dip, mirrored by the other. When one of them dipped it looked simply as if it was falling, until it uncurled itself suddenly in a sharp caustic spasm. The movement was erratic but urged towards some kind of obvious pattern. I did not know and do not know what bound the two seahawks together. Maybe they were a breeding pair or maybe they were simply hunting together. It was a celebration that held apart the air between them. This is how seahawks move. A whole forest of lines and chords taken in the air, a language that is completely spontaneous and therefore indecipherable.  I don’t think I’m really managing to get any of this across. But that’s natural, I suppose. It’s an alien thing, to see so much life contracted into points so small, folded this way, and wedged so furiously into the air.

Anyway, that’s the only really interesting thing I did today. I might take the Volkie to O.’s place to see how he’s getting on. W.r.t work – well, it’s not a huge amount I need to get done at this point, and Helper is often out.