This Night, A Very Strange Night Indeed.

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Yesterday I finished work earlier than usual, to a message from a friend who has appeared on this blog more than once, Anna, inviting me to a hot-chocolate at my, also aforementioned in previous posts, favourite coffee-house, and of course I agreed. We met half-an-hour later in the corner behind the wall. Anna is partaking in a teaching course, something which is very apt to not only her talents, but her personality as well. She’s got a flair that I imagine children find endlessly endearing, and she has what I like to call a ‘sunshine quality’. We talked and had our beverages, which included a tea with the title mango-tango sweetened with those replacement sugar pellets which taste horrible on their own. We then proceeded to walk to the library for a writing session, because that’s just what writers do, they get together and write. Unfortunately, the library, another preferable haunt of mine had closed a short while before we arrived. Instead we decided we would resume our session at my house.

Anna’s car was parked in the paid car-park at the shopping-centre. I’ve never been up there, but the view is sensational, and even the hoe is visible. Although I took a couple of pictures, my camera doesn’t like the dark any more than I do, and it tried to compensate by upping my exposure. Still, the results are a little more artsy than a stand-alone shot, and I seem to be getting a message in the form of the letter S.Perhaps I am destined to meet someone whose first initial is S at the hotel in the right photograph placed somewhere alongside this text. Bright, blurry lights aside, it is a spectacular view, which you can map using the famous sights which dot our town.

Writing is a delight when the task is taken with friends at hand, others enduring the panic of a possibly empty page, and worse, a possible empty mind seemingly void of any ideas at all.  Of course, Anna’s writing was a little less fictional, and teacher related, but company makes carrying on easier in almost any situation I believe. Despite the want to, and the motivation, a tiring afternoon at work had drained me of mental functioning, so I didn’t achieve as much as I could have in the time we spent writing, but I did enjoy it. Later, we wandered up to some late night shops and purchased a few nibbles, and watched a movie late into the evening.

I had a dream that night which woke me with excitement and hope, and hope a belief i might actually be able to make something of myself. As you may interpret from several mentions to his work, person and blog, I enjoy the work of author Neil Gaiman, and I find him inspiring. In my dream he came to visit me at my parents house near Bristol, and I greeted him at the door, as shocked as I would be if the events were truly happening. He said hello, he asked if he could come in, and of course I immediately agreed. I think I’ve only seen two pictures of him wearing a hat, but in my dream-world-of-dreamyness, alongside the trademark leather jacket, and puffy hair, he had a hat. Sometime during his visit, my sister removed it from his head and placed it on mine, and then proceeded to try and take a photograph. Before she could, I looked at Neil and noticed how solemn his expression had become, and I asked if he was okay with me wearing his hat. Despite being polite and nodding quietly, his features remained set in their serious form, and he said “You can wear my hat, but I think it would be better for you to wear your own”, and he gave me a hat. Neil Gaiman gave me a dream hat.

When I think about this dream the meaning seems quite clear. Neil, being someone I admire and idealise greatly, is the vision of my aspirations. During my first year of University I was made to take a module in drama. Long story short, the group broke into teams and created small plays commenting on one philosophical theme or another. One group spoke about hats being the different personalities we as people assume everyday. The same applies here. I get so frustrated because my writing doesn’t feel like anything publishable, and while I know I’ll never be so great, I think about how Neil Gaiman writes and I sometimes mold my style around him.  What I need to do is not be so concerned and wear my own hat, trust and develop my own written style naturally. Yes, I think that’s what I want to take from my night-visions. Anyway, I woke before my alarm alerted me to the hour with a smile on my face. That doesn’t happen often.

Fast-forward to this morning, where we have been reduced to no heat because the boiler leaked during the night. Two nights ago the electricity ran cold, and now the heat is as well. It should be fixed by the time I return from work, but I am beginning to believe we are being haunted by mischievous maras.

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