Look at the black rock

Had such vividly remembered dreams last night that I got up and wrote them down. I am concious that some people think other people's dreams are the most boring thing imaginable. But here is one of the dreams.

I was in a library looking at a volume of Bishop Berkeley, and trying unsuccessfully to read the spines of other books. The library was full of beautiful paintings, and one corner of the room was covered in huge paintings of a cliffy coast. I hurried over to them, thinking they were of Guernsey. But some people, who were somehow my ancestors, were speaking a Scandinavian language I could half understand. One of them said, ‘look at the black rock’, and I looked behind me and saw a standing stone that was grey against the sandy white background of a beach. Then I walked onwards and away from it into what had become a real landscape with my new Scandinavian people.

It seems like a new start, and the dream felt very positive. I was intruiged by the fact I was reading Bishop Berkeley, the idealist philosopher who thought we were all an idea in the mind of God. And Scandinavians? Why? I felt I belonged to them though, which was odd. Plus the black rock, which wasn't black it was grey.

Im usually quite good at interpreting my own dreams, but this proved elusive. Home with Lorraine, fed cat, cut back suddenly rampant jasmine with Calliope climing inside the huge bush and trying to swipe me as I worked on top of the ladder. Otherwise going into cupboards under the stairs to clear things out.

Feeling stressed under a mountain of things to be done. Sort out the CD, the play, and generate more cashflow, and move into Lorraine's house all to be done in the next month or so. Sat down and had a brain dump, to remind myself that I don't have to do everything instantly, and that if I take thing steadily I have time. Felt somewhat calmer after this.

Below a shot I took on Friday of a man sitting by the rainbow of a fountain.