Women and dreams
She carried a large clear handbag - as is the fashion - with everything in it, including a 2-litre bottle of water. Her brown tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses had obviously been chosen to match her hair, faded to caramel from standard Asian midnight black. Intermittently, she picked up her book - "The Republic" by Plato - and read conscientiously, drinking in word-sized wisdoms.
~~~~~
I have been plagued by nightmares lately, three almost in a row, all with the common theme of death.
The first of these I dreamed that someone I knew in real life who was travelling either didn't make it to their destination, or didn't make it back. It was one of those dreams that you magically knew things have happened even if you weren't there to witness the actual event. I remember waking up in a panic and hoping like hell it wasn't a premonition.
The second of these was violent. We were sitting in a service at a very large church, and I decided that I would go into another part of the church complex - not sure why, boredom, I guess. A wedding was taking place, so I discreetly sat myself at the back to watch; I didn't know anyone here.
So the bride eventually walked up the aisle, but just as she arrived at the front of the hall, someone threw a knife at her and chopped her down. Bridesmaids screaming, everyone panicking and it was utter chaos - there were reporters, people hysterically relaying what they saw, people crying.
Some time later, we got to see the video analysis of the crime. It seemed that it was the groom who threw the knife. We watched the blade leave his hand on a low resolution black and white screen, as it hurtled impossibly slowly towards its target, as if suspended by supernatural means, slicing slently through the air and cutting into the bride ... all in slow motion.
There was another dream, from the night before last. But my recollection is now hazy, it was the kind of nightmare where one was left only with the impression of fear rather than any real images. There was, however, one sequence which seemed so out of place that it was practically all that I remember.
Before anything scary started, I seemed to be at a friend's place outside her house because she didn't want to see me but was strangely happy to talk to me through her window. Out of nowhere, Grandma appeared and started to say a prayer for me. She spoke in her usual slow, laborious manner, asking that I be blessed and that I would find the directions which I seek. And then, she simply walked down the path and out of my dream.
I must have been too exhausted to dream properly last night, because I dreamed only of colourful porcelain being sold in a shop.
~~~~~
The two women were from West Malaysia. I could tell by the way they spoke the main dialect of the region, and by the way pronounce certain English words - perhaps also by the choice of words.
They talked about Christmas sales, the agony of wearing high heels, medications for hay fever. One of them had a bottle that was apparently overpriced, or so she thought. The taller one asked the other about her niece's exams, and something about moving house.
"Ahh she doesn't want to live with me," complained the shorter one. Grumpier too, it seemed. "I told her, if she wants to move out, go ahead and move and don't come back. Once you see the outside world, you cannot come back. Told her if she wanted to stay, then stay."
I swallowed my urge to comment. I didn't know whether I was more shocked or angry.
She spent the next ten minutes describing her niece's bad habits in excruciating detail. So by the end of it, half the train knew that her niece leaves biscuit crumbs everywhere, and that she doesn't think to wipe down the sink after she does the dishes.
Maybe my recent turmoil has rendered me more emotional than cynical. But why, tell me why, do we seek to criticise, rather than to show support and love?
[Corresponding dandruff flake][Comment?]
18 December 2001, Tuesday, 11:25 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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