Self-Analysis

I was dreaming, and sadly as with many dreams the beginnings may be lost on me. I was however expecting a package containing information. The fantasy that makes such an anticipation palpable however, the origin of the dream, is difficult to recollect. Yet, even with this fantasy broken, we glean signs as to what it may have been by the forms the dream work manifests our wish content in.

I received a large yellow covered envelope, which when opened had an inner lining or bubble wrap. The kind of cover that is meant to hold and protect important and urgent documents, concealing as well as protecting them, the kind that you see in movies with big red stamps like 'for x's eyes only' - confidential information, not a public inquiry.

I remember opening it with some of these semblances stirring at the back of my perceptions, only to find a little stump of grey plastic inside. A meaningless little blob of such obvious insignificance that its presence inside the cover makes sense only as some sort of riddle, or a dream which calls for interpretation.

I, while not a collector, do occasionally purchase miniature figures, often knights and necromancers, just the two actually, sculpted in tin and resin. I had ordered another piece apart from those but I believe it may have broken while being transported. The little lump of grey plastic resembles the resin used to make the miniatures. The material of a childhood fancy perhaps, yet incompleted, not properly formed, or perhaps deformed - such histories, perhaps not unlike those of the origins of the dream somehow don't make their way into the dreamwork.

As a man, I have been vying for the attentions of a beautiful young girl who I fancy, but who doesn't seem to care much for my attentions. My efforts at reaching her have strained to the point where occasionally I enact what I sense is a childlike ritual of presenting one's interests before a guardian, like showing a new friend one's toys. Except, that this is where one, or rather I find myself when the circumstances of my life itself do not solicit any consideration; and - to be honest the toys don't seem to be fairing any better :)

I bring this up because, for her part she did once recommend a documentary to me. A documentary about British spies during the second World War, though honestly they weren't really British, probably American, definitely American - I Google Bletchley Park to discover that they were indeed English, and it makes sense, with some other memories I have of her, the fact that we both read Alistair MaClean's 'Guns of Navarone & 'Force Ten From Navarone' - thrillers set in the second World War, written by a Scottish novelist who was once a sailor.

What do habits of consumption tell us about a person anyway? In another time I might have said a shared artistic, no - that is the wrong word, a shared aesthetic sensibility. But to me, they were figurations, possibilities of drawing upon common experience, common metaphors - in the construction of something resembling a common ground.

I have heard of nothing from her for quite some time now. My attempts reduced to a fantasised response in an unmarked cover, or at least with the sender unnamed and a lump of clay, no: a bit of grey plastic serving as a reminder of the sum of my efforts, which to my mind were significant.

I amuse myself by thinking that the Codebreakers at Bletchley Park may once have used similar yellow large envelops, with bubble wrap lining the inside, protecting vital information in the war against the Germans.

A weariness does animate some of these efforts, yet I am compelled by some sense of artistic unfulfillment to tell you that the imaginary, stunted or simply stillborn novelist in me would have liked to use these...semblances, if they are that as inspiration as the moment of a commingling of several distinct sensibilities to put together what we may call a plot. A sense of how these disparities fit together via associations made in a mind and approach something resembling a coherence. I however, to sustain this thread, would require the inputs of one who I have characterised above, understanding here full well that I depict without naming hence inviting a substitution in the mind of my reader lest a name become a curse that haunts the peace of their silence.

Morning, Wednesday, 15th September, 2021.