Dream

I was sitting on the pan when I recollected the dream I’d wakened from was of being published without being told – oh! – and tried remembering it as fully and accurately as possible. Surprisingly I was able to retrieve some when usually I couldn’t grasp the evanescent thread that’d let me retrace my steps back in to remembrance of the dream or, when I did, couldn’t subsequently retain the conscious memory I then had enough for it to make it into my diary when I came to write out the day’s events, and almost forgot this time too:

it was a party of sorts, four or so people bedsides me in the room, with the room door open for further access from the outside door, like a pre-celebration, without drink, though I didn’t know of what. Jacyntha, standing centrally by the bed, when I was at the head, was holding forth on something from which I inferred she’d published the book the Monday before. I started moving, expostulating to all generally and each singly she’d published it without telling me! Quentin, my other publisher, seated to my left and facing the room door, said at my approach she had her own way of publishing. She did that. I think Daniel, my would-be publisher, was one of the others there, at the open door. Having done the rounds, I rounded on Jacyntha, who’d moved a little to what was now my right and, exasperated, said the book was hers! Oh! In a sense it was but not more than in another sense it was mine, surely. I should’ve been told at least. She got very stroppy, saying she wouldn’t tell me again, making me think she might be thinking of publishing another book of mine. “You can’t say ‘again’ when you didn’t tell me this time.” “You could’ve said something else there,” Quentin commented in an aside, implying I’d lost an opportunity for wit. “I wasn’t thinking.”

I resumed sitting on the bed by the window where Sally, who’d just come in, joined me. “The book’s been published. That’s good. Isn’t it!” a much more important fact than the lack of courtesy in not telling me. Sally agreed. I wondered what she was doing there, not that she wasn’t welcome, but, though I was speaking to her, I wasn’t to my neighbour, her boyfriend. How did she square that? not that it was my problem. I thought she was going to, explaining she’d been cooking, the walls got wet – condensation I thought – but she wasn’t getting to any tiff with him over it and he was unlikely to have made something of it so I woke up and went for a pee.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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