Last night’s dream:
I, and a handful of people board an Edwardian cliff railway, like the ones at Babacombe and Folkestone. The carriage sets off but instead of going down the cliff it goes inside the cliff. It is pitch black for a while and then we stop at what appears to be a cave. Only the walls, roof and floor of the cave are blood red and fleshy and muscly. At first we don’t notice them but eventually see lots of people stuck to one another. Their bodies are red raw and they have lash marks on their backs. One of the passengers spots a black mass on one of the recesses. “What is that?” he asks. The tour guide replies, “It’s not a that. It’s a they” and raps on the window of the carriage. The mass disperses and we see it is made up of creatures that are one third rodent, one third beetle and one third bat. Some of the creatures fly off out of the cliff; some scurry off and exit the cave through an apperture in the cliff; the others are dead and drop to the ground. The carriage returns to the top of the cliff. End of dream.
I know the message of the dream.
When he found out he was dying of pancreatic cancer, Dennis Potter named his tumour Rupert (after Murdoch). I’ve named mine too. Unfortunately I can’t tell you it’s name because of that sodding court order. It’s named after the woman Steven calls Whistler’s Mother.
My anger from 2010 had to go somewhere. A lot of it was useful. It was the fuel to fight to get Steven home. But an awful lot of it couldn’t be expressed. It would have been too dangerous to. It had to be pushed down and it became embedded. And as it made a home, I lashed myself raw. I went bat(ty).
I’ll blog again when I get back home.