THE DREAM'S DREAM
In the dream the girl-woman who worked in the club told me she was quitting work for the night: Was I reaaaaady to dance, she asked, laughing as she disappeared through the door to the staff area. She looked a bit like Eleanor Whatserface from Fiery Furnaces, but prettier; early / mid-thirties.
I looked in the whole-wall trick-mirror, momentarily aware of my age. Hmmm, not too bad, I guess, I decided. I liked the way the trick-mirror lied. I'm a terrible dancer now, tho; a dad-dancer.
On my scalp I found an adhesive label which I peeled off; it was stuck up under my hairline where my skin-cancer had been ("You heal really well," the oncologist told me a few weeks ago when he gave me the all-clear and I was surprised to hear that; and for a second I thought he was lying: what, me, good at healing? But no, he's right, I came back from the near-dead about 7 years ago; maybe I am...good at healing.)
So, me and the nameless girl who looked a bit like Eleanor Whatserface danced - me in my lumpen elderly way; her more of an easy swing, a hip sway...then we're walking on the beach, feet crunching on shingle and the sunlight is almost dazzling...there's a lagoon bordered by shingle (a bit like Abbotsbury / Chesil Beach), but the place has a pseudoCeltic-sounding name that's impossible to pronounce, let alone write. And I'm very happy here. I feel 'forgiven.' She points down the beach; we're on a penninsula made from piled-up shingle; there's a building there, but everything's in the shape of a map - a drawing - rather than 3D and this is where we need to go: into History, into Memory; "This...this is where things get interesting," she tells me, laughing, and locks arms with me...
Then one of my children wakes me up to say she had a nosebleed during the night.