Rising from a dream I bring half a name from another world. One half of a name is no use to me, not lying in this bed with morning singing at me in blackbird. I try to reach back to find the other half, but it is too late, the gate has swung shut and I am on the outside of the dreamworld for another stretch of daylight hours. When I resume this position later on tonight, it may be another door I go through and that half of a name will be waiting for a girl who won’t show up.
Not this night anyway.
All morning I try to remember, as I go through the daily round of husband-dusting, dish washing, floor cleaning, blog writing. My head is full of daylight things such as What’s for Lunch and What time is it and How do I upload photos from my fancy phone with orange surround and a tailor made screen cover to cover the screen? From time to time I remember that I am trying to remember a half-remembered name, and then, like dust, it is gone again, breaking up into tiny motes and landing in someone else’s eye. I can’t see it any more so I should probably give up.
But I don’t give up easily.
That name belonged to somebody, somebody that played a part in my dream. The fact that the dream itself never travelled the distance from dreamlight to daylight doesn’t seem to bother me at all. It’s the name I want.
Who was it that tried to come with me as I journeyed between worlds? And why does it matter so much?
As I fed the birds this morning, in a warm spring wind, I asked the sheep if they knew, but they just stared, mid-munch. I don’t suppose ‘mattering much’ is easily translated into sheep. A bit long-winded and fancy when all you ever say is ‘Baaa’. To be honest, I would have fallen straight into the corn barrel if one of them had said……How interesting……let me give it some thought.
All afternoon I look out at the hills, the cloud shadows moving across their winter flanks, in search of inspiration. I watch the gulls spin over the rumpled sea-loch and hear their cries, not one of any help to me. The washing machine whines in endless circles, but there is no answer there. Gradually, the half name dwindles and I fear I will lose it altogether, so I write it down on a snatch of rough paper and fix it with a sea stone, garnered from a jewelled shore after high tide. Perhaps I think the stone will stop it blowing away, this half name.
I read it out. Means nothing to me, makes no sense. I feel no tug from any harbour in my mind and I know I must accept that this name has no desire to be found. Not yet.
Soon it will come again, the dreamlight, when candles can be lit and the wood burner coaxed into soft flames and I will sit beside them all, and watch their echoes dance across my wine glass.
And I will wonder if this night will lead me back to that same door, behind which a half-remembered name waits for me. Perhaps, this time, with a face.