Hieronymous the Anonymous

Why I dream

I dreamt last night that I applied for a job at some company and afterwards went to the staff cafe for a coffee. The cafe was full and very lively and I found myself standing next to Paige, who evidently worked there. Paige was talking to another woman, and though intensely aware of me beside her she chose to ignore me completely. Standing there by myself it seemed ridiculous in measures equally sad and funny, too ridiculous to abide. I stood by her side, so close that our shoulders brushed and I could smell her scent and hear the distinctive tones of her voice as if she were speaking to me. I watched her waiting for a break in the conversation, intending to say hello as reason expected, and to ask how she was. I stood feeling her scrutiny upon me even as she spoke to the other person and realised that there would not be any break in the conversation because she would not allow it, and if in fact I managed to say anything at all to her that she would ignore it altogether, as if nothing had been said and I was not there. This seemed very Paige.

It seems to me I dream of Paige more than I do of the other recent women in my life. In some part I wonder if that is because I have had a kind of dream renaissance in the last 18 months. Prior to that the dreams I recalled were few and far between. I can remember no dreams featuring Amy, though doubtless there were some, and while I definitely dreamt of Jennie they were fewer and less definitely defined. There is merit in that consideration, but what came first, the chicken or the egg? Perhaps I remember vividly and more often these days because I have more vivid subjects to dream of, and more unresolved in my unconscious.

I tend towards that view myself. The nature of broken relationships is that there is much unresolved, and much left uncertain. That is particularly the case with Paige. The other relationships ended for reasons that I can understand, though deeply regret. To this day though I have had no acceptable explanation of why Paige chose to end our friendship. I can hypothesise and have some confidence in my suppositions, but they are my explanations, not hers. She is silent. In place of that I have dreams which either address the issue or replicate it, as I did last night. Last nights dream was classic in its way, two sides of the coin, Paige pretending I don't exist whilst intimately aware of me, while I look on floundering in confusion.

A counterpoint to these dreams of Paige are my thoughts of Jennie. I think of Jennie only in passing these days, but there is enough to prompt it to occur regularly. For example, it struck me whilst browsing on Facebook how Jennie is no longer in contact with any of the friends she made living here. That seemed both unusual and unfortunate. As I reflected on it I wondered if I was some cause of that. The most central relationship she had with anyone living here was with me. We formed a bond and became intimates. We were going to be friends for life, something we would occasionally discuss. When our friendship failed other relationships filled the void, though unsatisfactorily. None of them were as deep as what Jennie and I had shared. Over time they have withered away, and I wonder if Jennie and I had remained friends whether in our ongoing contact those other relationships may have better survived.

Then on Saturday I went to a ceremony renewing wedding vows. I felt somewhat isolated knowing no-one, and in the foreign surrounds of a church. My mind wandered. I wondered how Jennie was getting on, remembering that she had married earlier this year. Then I felt guilt. God knows I have done some stupid things in my life, but mostly I have been the victim of their consequences. Occasionally others suffer also, though rarely, and though I regret that I can excuse it partly knowing it was not malice but stupidity that caused it.

I have no such comforting excuse with Jennie. Sitting in that church pew I thought back to the time I wrote to her after she had announced she was returning home to England. Essentially I told her how I felt, how I wanted her to stay and what I wanted. Well that was difficult, but fair enough. What was not fair was how I continued. I called into question the validity of her relationship with Tim, her boyfriend. I made claims that it was clear he was not fully committed towards her, and that her own feelings were ambivalent towards him, driven more by duty than passion. I have little doubt all I said was true, and I dare say she knew it whether she admitted it or not, but it was not my place to be telling her that.

Others since have excused me. They thought it fair enough, just as I did at the time. Truth is it wasn't my business. I had no business telling her what she felt, nor what he felt for her. It was cruel of me to cast doubt upon the central relationship of her life. True or not it was not my part to tell her what she felt or how she should act; that was something she had to come at herself.

This is an abiding regret of mine. It was not intended maliciously, but that is what it effectively was. She was very upset, and it took me some time to apologise to her as I should. Even today I feel badly about it. I wish she could know how much I regret those cruel words of mine. She doesn't and she won't, and has moved on in any case. I've learnt from it too. It has done me good to acknowledge my wrongdoing, and to recognise the boundaries I should never have over-stepped. It cost me a dear friend.

This is the difference between Paige and Jennie, and why I dream of one and think of the other. There was no closure in my relationship with Paige. It ended abruptly and without rhyme or reason or explanation. I tried and failed with Jennie. I did the wrong thing and learned from it. There are things I regret, but in each instance the opening ends in a closure. There is nothing to dream of because it is all there in plain view.

What would Jung make of it?

Image by Thrift Store Addict via Flickr

It was another night rich with extravagant dreams. I lay there with these strange and curious goings on in my nocturnal mind, dreams as if written by Kafka and others by Arthur C. Clark. They were vivid while they continued and there was the sense of myself observing them even as I participated. There was part of me that questioned and wondered at what was happening - these dreams were both narrative and philosophy.

Soon after I woke most were gone in the usual way. One only lingers, and then not in the detail of it, but rather in the knowledge it left me with. I was a space traveller. We had set off on a huge and ambitious journey to the stars. I recall that we had a big send-off, and were big news. But then as we rocketed into the dark blue of the cosmos all that seemed forgotten. All was quiet, almost serene, and mysteriously unknown.

This was the journey of a lifetime, the journey I had always wanted to make. And yet as we travelled quietly towards our distant destination a sense of isolation descended upon me. I missed the noise and community of the world I had left behind, the gossip, the politics, the sheer energy that touches upon you being part of the human race on earth. I felt detached from that, and alone almost as if I had chosen to forever leave that behind - which in a sense I had, knowing that this trip would be years in the making and that if ever I should return to earth then it would be at time far advanced of today and to a world much different.

It was odd. I've watched movies and read books about similar stories and felt then only sense of adventure and mystery and curiosity. More often than I can think have I imagined myself in that role and feeling nothing more than those lively emotions. They were true enough, I thought, but truer still is the reality of being alone in an infinite cosmos. That's how it would be, cut off from the world and no longer a part of the community that had made you.

Dreams are curious things, and I'm never quite sure how much I should read into them. One thing that never ceases to surprise me is the insight I am gifted to asleep and dreaming that is absent from me conscious and awake. No matter what you believe, it's hard to argue there is much more going on in our dreams that strange stories.

Love the one you're with

Had a cool dream last night about the end of the world. It was both bleak and cinematic. Funny to wonder where these things come from.

Don't remember how it starts. Some series of disasters that betoken a global conflagration of biblical proportions. In the confusion I am separated from the woman I am with, meet up with an acquaintance and bump into Amy. There is chaos all around, panic and confusion.

In some how and in some way I am an important figure in what is happening. I don't know if I ever knew exactly how I figured in things, but it seems I am the unwitting and random holder of information which may possibly save the world (hooray!). I am aware of this, as is my acquaintance, and between the two of us we try to make our way through the chaos and the ongoing trials to a place where the information can be used.

As it happens in dreams my acquaintance transmogrifies into another man, older, a cultured and wealthy man of the world. I remember he had cool blue eyes and blonde hair cut to a mere scraping on his head. He takes me and Amy on his plane to a place I thought of as the Gold Coast, where he lives, though it is a much more glamorous and alluring Cote d'Azure version of it.

We are sitting in an outdoor cafe while people and traffic pass by in the street. We are talking when I hear voices raised and then see over his shoulder the dark trails of a meteor shower as they pass through the atmosphere and plunge into the earth. In the drama cars collide, people scream. We can feel the impact and see the smoke billow in the air - they landed no further than 100km away.

I remember in the dream watching with fascination the smoke trails from the meteors thinking that they looked like missiles, one after the other describing an arc through the sky. Then I thought: this is really happening. This really is the end of the world. Then I felt genuine fear mixed in with the last remnants of disbelief: how is it that I come to witness the end of days?

Chaos reigns again. In the confusion we lose the man we were with. We look through the labrynthine alleys and lane-ways and holding hands so as not to lose each other Amy and I fight our way through the surging crowd and finally to the man's elaborate home. There is no-one there. It is quiet, almost funereal in the house, a world away from the drama outside.

We sit and wait, close now. Though we parted distantly we have left all that behind and in these extreme days have shrugged off all that now seems so irrelevant. The dream ends like that, the two of us alone, together and waiting.

Wake up laughing

I woke earlier to one of those mornings that in other colder places would see the snow drifting down. As always I opened my blinds first up to reveal a cold, austere panorama, the clouds low and thick, the trees static in the still air. I quite fancied the idea of falling snow - not something you ever see in the inner suburbs of Melbourne (and rarely elsewhere, outside of the mountains), but then I hurried to turn the central heating on. If it's to be this cold it may as well snow.

I'm going to write about my dreams again. I know hearing about another's dreams is about as fascinating as looking at somebody else's holiday snaps, so you can cease reading here if you wish and I won't be offended. I record them for my own reference, and out of curiosity for what they may signify, if anything.

Once more many dreams, but in the end one dream that seemed to ramble on introducing characters unexpectedly.

Starts with me sitting inside somewhere by a window. I look out and see a figure from behind I think I recognise. A woman's figure. I watch her as she walks by, waiting for her to turn and confirm my suspicion. Eventually she turns side on to me and there is no mistaking her, it is Paige.

She passes by every day at about the same time from a direction I had not expected. I think: does she live in Fitzroy now, or Carlton? Occasionally we pass by in the street when I am out and about. I am respectful of her feelings and leave her be. I don't even acknowledge her presence, and nor does she me - just like real life. Yet we are both very aware of the other.

The dream transmogrifies. I am in a tram, one of the green rattlers, sitting by the window. The tram stops and people get on and off. One of the people getting on is Krista, an American girl I met when I was in NYC, and someone I have recently re-established contact with. There is a young child with she seems to be minding, but when she sees me she stops everything to sit beside me and we talk like old friends.

Once more the dream changes. I am returning from somewhere on foot with Donna. There is a car waiting for us. We open the back door to find the seats taken. In one of the seats is my mate Cheeseboy. Something strange has happened to him. He has no arms and legs, and his torso is shrunk, so that he is almost all head. He seems happy though, smiling broadly and explaining that this is only temporary - he'll have his arms and legs back in no time.

We try to sort out seating arrangements and Donna, quite happily suggests she can nurse Cheeseboy in her lap. I can tell this idea quite tickles her, and I begin to laugh.

That's how I wake - laughing. And I couldn't stop it. I laughed as I opened the blinds and then laughed again as I made my coffee. I'm going to the soccer tonight with Cheeseboy so I'll have to tell him. And I'm sure Donna will be delighted to hear of this.

What does it mean? Probably fuck all, but it's nice to wake up with a smile on my face.

Random thoughts Monday

I dreamt a tsunami was coming and I fled to an open air theatre for shelter. With me were two others in the back room of the theatre furthest from the wave. We heard it crashing through the obstacles as it approached us, and felt a visceral fear as it came closer, not able to see it, not knowing what to expect. Then it swept down upon us, the water cold and surging, rising higher on our bodies as we were trapped in that room. At our chin it stopped. It was frigid and uncomfortable but at that moment I knew we would survive.

In another dream I was to travel somewhere but my lift to the airport never arrived. I walked instead, battling all kinds of strange obstacles in my way, until I made it, just in the nick of time.

Neither of these dreams are particularly cheery but both left me feeling positive. In both though the situation seemed bleak it worked out.

In the final dream before I woke there was Jennie again looking at me. We were by a river. She seemed bright and untroubled, smilingly telling me that I "own a lovely throat". Well thanks.

Then there are brief memories that flit in and out of my mind. I am cooking and I think of Amy. I think of one conversation we had that has always stuck with me. She is telling me how much she likes me, but how disappointed she is in me. It is heartfelt and authentic. I listen silently, knowing the truth of what she tells me. If only she could see me now, I think. She knew me when I was in a strangely subdued period when I had lost my go forward, or my mojo as I thought of it then. It was strange and disturbing to me, but there was no point in explaining it to her. I got it back soon after I saw her for the last time, and am the man again I have always been but for that dulled year - but she wouldn't know it.

And I think back to Amber last year, mentally kicking myself for not trying to make a better go of it. I should have, but I let it slip. And I wonder why I never mentioned it to Jennie, why we never spoke of it as friends. It never occurred to me then, but now seems an odd oversight. I wish I had, but if I let it slip with Amber then Jen is the reason.

And entering a familiar bar I have not been to for a while I recall the last time I was there, with Paige. I remember afterwards walking to the station with her, and then another time, the night I had words with the bouncer and she came out to take me away.

Walking down the street my mind wanders. It is sunny, a lovely day after a succession of chilled, grey days. I think to myself: I might get beaten, but I'll never give in. It feels true, like something independent of how I am, like something I couldn't change if I wanted to. I wonder if it makes me a target sometimes, this perverse inability to bow down. It is the thought of a narcissist, but even in my objective mind I have wondered sometimes if there is not some cosmic design to break me. And if it would not be easier for me if I were not so stubborn. But then, I think, I would not be me.

Finally cleaning up I pick up a piece of buff coloured paper. You have been the wolf it says, but now it is time to get out amongst society again and join with it.

Maybe.

Faith, hope and fantasy

I feel like I’ve come to a fork in the road. My options are to go forward and take a risk which will cost me a good chunk of money, but which may return handy dividends. More importantly if I choose that option and it comes off then it will likely determine the future direction of my life. Of course it may not come off, in which case I’ll have risked much and lost much for no reward. Which brings us to the other option, the road that forks off into safer territory. I do nothing basically. I hope for something to eventuate. Something good may come of it, though the chances are much less than if I took the risk. Equally the risk of misfortune is much less also. The choice is between doing something and muddling forward hoping to find something.

Perhaps my language gives me away – I am a gambler from way back. The aim of life is to do isn’t it? To act, or to experience at least. What was that quote from Marcus Aurelius – to act or to be acted upon? And so yes, my powerful urge is to go for it. And so feeling that I counsel myself caution. Think again H, I tell myself, consider the angles. If you fail then it will cut deep. That’s where I’m at. In reality there’s not much to consider – the angles are unknown, and no-one who can tell me any better. It’s a plunge in the dark and there is nothing I can do to illuminate the way. It is the classic test of faith.

I’m going through a peacefully turbulent period these last couple of weeks. That may seem an oxymoron, what I mean is that while everything seems pretty normal there are things happening inside me overlaid by a general sense that wheels are turning. I suppose they’re always turning somewhere, it’s just that I am mostly oblivious of it. But not lately. I feel motion even if I do not know of what type and to where it leads. It feels positive nonetheless. I find myself pausing often as if I can catch it if I listen hard, or if I can see from the corner of my eye if I really try. In things I do and places I go  lately I often feel an indefinable resonance, like I have walked in on the last notes of a tuning fork I feel thrum in the air without hearing.

This may seem so much mumbo jumbo, but I trust in this sense. I am alert now to what comes my way. This obligation to make a choice is consistent with that. Here’s your choice H it seems to be saying to me, make your choice and go your way…

Not unconnected to this I have in the same period gone through another active dream phase. I think likely I am more sensitive to things than normally, here, for now, the membrane between my conscious life and that other is much thinner than normal. I can’t see through it, but in my dreams can sense something of what is on the other side. I have always believed that some dreams are the metaphorical interpretation of things both deep inside us, and without.

In one dream I sit at a table with people I do not recognise and who in the dream I appear to be no more than acquaintances with. Rigby is there playing with a woman I feel I know but cannot recognise. The man beside me asks what it feels like to watch my woman play with Rigby. So she is mine, I think curiously. And the dream ends.

In another dream I am in some ancient, alien city, long abandoned. There are about 20 of us. When night falls these very ugly and bloodthirsty monsters emerge from the shadowy dark and begin attacking us. It is just like a Hollywood sci-fi horror movie. There are screams all around me as my colleagues are ripped apart and devoured by these creatures. I manage to hide in the dark and then make my escape. I meet with someone else - JV - and we flee together with the monsters now on our trail. The city is like a maze and we manage to lock ourselves in a safe refuge. Somehow we know the danger is in the darkness, and so we lie low before digging our way out in the daylight and escaping.

In the next scene JV and I are in a large hall where lessons of some description are being announced. We are running one of the courses and are applauded for that. The crowd breaks up and we go outside into the sunshine. There students are signing up for the different courses (the foreign students told they cannot). At one table is a girl I know besieged by students wanting to sign up. Spotting me she exclaims as how she is expected to cope by herself. Her partner is Jennie, who is away. I don’t know I tell her, Jennie is away until just after Christmas and then is only here a few days. But then she says, no she’s not, she’s over there.

I turn around. Sure enough, there is Jennie. Her blonde hair is longer than I remember, and kinked. She looks relaxed. She is surrounded by friends she has not seen for many months. I look at her. I wonder what I am going to do. I wonder what I’m going to say. I know that very soon we are to talk. Dream ends.

That’s a sample of the dreams I have had. I feel like I am dreaming all night, intricately plotted and quite entertaining dreams. I’m glad of it because I feel in the thick if something important.

That’s my life right now. I feel very positive. And I feel immensely talented. No point hiding that under a bushel. If everything comes off what a life I’ll have, and what a man I’ll be! Now there’s a challenge worth rising to.

Tranquility not

Yesterday afternoon went into the city to see my accountant. Afterwards I was to catch up with Becky for a quick drink. I was early and sat in the cold outdoors sipping on a white wine. Then Becky came and we ordered a bottle and then the phone rang again and again and within half an hour Cheeseboy had joined us. Becky stayed till 7, and Cheeseboy and I had another beer. Before I knew it we had set out again and I was sitting in Punch Lane about to have dinner with 9 other people. I thought I'd be home by 7. Instead it was 11.30 I got home, full once more.

I woke about 5am this morning having had more than my share of dreams. The night before had been dream laden too, meaningless, insignificant dreams about women I knew once and others so trivial as to be irrelevant. It was the same last night I think. In one dream I was in a car with Cheeseboy and his father - Guus Hiddink of all people - sitting on the front bench seat, before heading back to my place where we all did some gardening. In another I was with a woman acquaintance when we surprisingly got going together. And so on.

I lay in bed half asleep and taking a break from what seemed non-stop dreaming. After a few minutes I got up. I checked on the dog, then got myself a drink - I had the drys. I went back to bed and lay there. I felt the sleep in me, something warm and comforting. It was that pre-dawn period when everything is tranquil, when nothing stirs, when it is as dark as it has been all night and the silence complete. I felt it, listened to the tranquility if you like, appreciating it. And yet for all this I felt deeply unsettled.

It was the dreams to some extent, some nameless discontent they had stirred. And it was the night before. Perhaps I was just in one of those sour moods, but I felt lying there that I had done it all before, so many times. It felt stale. And lying there I felt myself sore in the familiar way - familiar recently anyway. Yes, I'm getting older, I'll cop that, it was all the rest of it, the lingering effects of my recent ailments that won't go away completely, the inconvenience, the pain, the sheer frustration of it all.

I slept and woke and drifted into all states in between. Still I felt the sheer comfort of lying in a soft, warm bed in the quiet. I was aware of the world outside gradually coming alive, the occasional tap of a high heel on the wooden floor next door, cars going by in the street. Forget it, I thought. When normally I'd have got up I stayed in bed, I need this I thought, and so I indulged myself.

The day was not much different to any other except I creaked a little more and felt a little less social than most. Otherwise it was same again, and nothing too much wrong with it. You have to wonder at those nights though.

So me

Today is the most Sundayish of Sunday's. It is bright outside and so quiet. Tame. I almost feel like going to church.Indoors I have read the newspaper in bed drinking my coffee. I got up then and aimlessly wandered around before heading back to read my book. Rigby jumps up on the bed to engage my attention. I pick up the phone to speak to my sister, but she's out. There goes my cadged lunch invite. I need to get out, do something.

I dreamed again overnight. Once more they seem to be revealing dreams. The dream I remember best featured my grandmother, dead for 10 years now. I was always her favourite. In the dream she is alive again and I am visiting her. I tell her of all that has been happening, especially everything in the last year. Then I break down and cry, can you believe it. The tears are cathartic. I feel them drain me of some of the bitter sorrow I have felt.

For all this time I have said nothing, now I let it all out. I have been under so much pressure I tell her. I know it's true but in saying it there is acknowledgement of the truth. I wonder how I have managed all this time. I sag, I become like a boy as the tears continue, but in the midst of it all there is hope. Something has changed, and it is that which has prompted this release of all my pent up fears and doubts and disappointment. Things will be better - knowing it the thing that has kept me upright throughout all this - my pride, my defiant belief, the knowledge that self-pity will do me no good - collapses.

There have been things I've wondered about in the last few months. I've wondered if there is something in my personality or character that has led me down this path. I wonder if all these tribulations are meant to teach me something. I wonder if there is a purpose to this, an intention. These thoughts are not surprising - I analyse almost everything.

I don't know the answers to those questions. Is it better that I break a little? Would it be better if I were more humble in the face of all this? From early on I was taught the value of fighting for the things you believe in. I don't think I could change that if I tried. I remember once calling my dad when he was going through a very tough time when he almost became bankrupt after being pretty well off. I spoke to the man taking over his business. I don't know how it happened but I recall so vividly how before than passing me onto dad he told me how proud I should be of him, how much strength and fortitude he was exhibiting in such a tough time. I knew my dad well enough to know that he would scrap every inch of the way, but the words of this stranger still moved me powerfully. I was proud, and he has always been the template for courage under fire.

I was speaking to Donna before about my dream and the situation. She calls me the iron-man. She sees no vulnerability in me. That's not true I said, there's plenty, I just hide it well. Then I joked: if anyone asks me how sensitive I am I can admit to crying in my dreams.

I learned from dad and from observing life in general that no matter how many times you get knocked down you have to get up from the canvas. That's how I want to be, but it can be exhausting. I feel like I have been knocked down a lot in the last 12 months, right from the moment I moved out of North Melbourne. That's why I wonder if there is a meaning to all this. It feels like a campaign has been waged against me - and I say that without self-pity (heaven forbid). I'm tired from repeatedly climbing from the canvas. I'm tired getting up not sure what I'm fighting for other than pride. There are times I feel like taking the count. I know I'm not superman. There's no shame in being beaten sometimes by the stronger opponent. I know I've given my all, as always. Maybe this is what I've got to know, maybe that is the humility I need to learn. Yet each time as I lay there dreaming about closing my eyes and thinking how nice it would be to stay there I find myself stirring almost in physical defiance of these ruminations. Hemingway once said than man can be destroyed but not defeated. That's not strictly true - many are too easily defeated. All the same it is something I ascribe to myself - till the day I am no longer capable of getting up from the canvas then I will keep doing it.

I am my own spin-doctor. I know it. Everything has a positive I think, or so I tell myself. This will make me stronger. Or I'll learn something important. Maybe I need this to re-align myself. At the very least, I think, it's good for the art. Besides, there are many worse off than me. And so on. Sundry reasons, legitimate or not. And yet as I reinforce this there are times I feel genuinely aggrieved by what has happened. I feel singled out by some of the episodes of recent times, feel unfairly treated. There is anger in me, confusion, sorrow. I am cautious with this - I don't want to indulge in soft and unproductive self-pity. So I ask the question if there is something in me that makes this so. It seems irrational but I wonder if 'life' wants to cut me down to size. I know I can be challenging, that I take things on. My mere existence sometimes poses awkward questions of other people. Often that means good, but sometimes bad too. Do I want to change that? Need I?

Donna suggested that maybe it would be good for me to be weaker for a change. Ask for help, pray, she said, as if that was what life was asking of me. Could you imagine I said, God would fall off his chair. Getta load of this he would say to Jesus, guess who's on the line now?

Quite characteristically I reject that, and this is the crux of my personality, and perhaps my problem. I find it difficult to ask for help. I want to do things my way. I won't be forced into a course of action even if it is beneficial to me. I am stubborn, manically independent. I'll dig my heels in if the purpose of all this is to change me. It may be immature but that's who I am.

And so we return to the dream. Seems to me the dream is telling me to be more open, and to let things go. Be weak if it makes it easier. Everything will work out.

Now having dreamt that I sit in my quiet home and it seems too quiet even with Rigby looking to climb all over me and lick me. Maybe it is not something I want to confront, and in the wake of the dream this place seems toxic. I need to get out and be with people.

Passing in the night

I was sitting outdoors at a bar last night in the City Square. Darkness had come but the night was mild. From the nearby bars the patrons spilled, celebrating the end of the week. The city was busy, busier than normal perhaps with the comedy festival in full wing. We watched a man dressed like the Grim Reaper walk across the square. We sat sipping wine and picking at an antipasto plate, me and a couple of my former colleagues.

Not long after sitting down I glanced over to take in a recent arrival sitting at another of the fixed outdoor tables. She was alone, an attractive and well dressed blonde woman in her late twenties, wearing shiny black boots. My eyes fixed on her. Did I know her? If it was who I thought it was then she was more elegant than I remembered. As I watched she took from her bag a pouch of tobacco and some cigarette papers, which she proceeded to roll expertly into a fag. It was her all right: how many women roll their own?

I remembered her as an earthy, intelligent, self-assured woman. She had a natural beauty she never made the most of, almost deliberately one felt. We became friendly in a small way, catching up for coffee and the odd drink, sharing with each other the latest news. She was married, but that never seemed an issue. I wasn't interested in her in that way - I had bigger fish to fry; and she seemed so naturally independent that there seemed little question that she would do her own thing.

Then it changed. Somebody said something to her that upset and disturbed her equilibrium. She didn't recover it, blaming me for things I had no knowledge of and then apologising. I was pissed off, I remember thinking, fuck, not again, and I backed off. And that's how it ended.

And there she was again. We sat apart, she sitting alone with a glass of champagne and her cigarette, more glamorous looking than I would ever have given her credit for, but solitary. I sat talking to my colleagues, thinking about heading home, turning to them and away, sending covert glances over towards the woman I had know, as she sent covert glances my way. And then she left, like that, nothing said.

Since the Thursday before Easter I have been thinking about the various women in my past. I have not been thinking of them a lot, but regularly than at any other recent time. There is little theme to these recollections. They come to me idly, pre-packaged. They are not wistful or yearning or even regretful, though sometimes fond. Sometimes as I go about my business the memories come to me more forcefully. That was true particularly yesterday as I wondered through the city, down the familiar streets and by the bars where so many things have happened, so many conversations and scenes, superimposed one over the other over the years like a palimpset. In the ordinary reality of the here and now these memories are like the piercing light of the sun reflected off distant mirrors.

I dreamt of these women too. The dreams have been innocuous but unusual. Each morning as I wake up and unscramble the dream of the night before I realise that things are not as they appear. In each of the dreams these women do not appear as themselves, they are represented by others, strangers to me. Still, though the faces are unknown to me, the roles are familiar.

I was reminded by these dreams of the Bob Dylan film made a year or so ago (I'm Not There) when a series of actors - including a woman - played him at different stages of his life. It was a bold and unusual method, and though patchy, generally good.

I don't know what to make of these dreams, or the significance of different 'actors' playing the roles of the woman I have been close to in some way or another. I'm sure it means something, though I can't think what. Judging by the fact of these memories and dreams it appears as if there is some kind of sub-conscious re-appraisal occurring. It is not something I am consciously focussing on - I have been much too busy to think of anything but the job at hand.

My sub-conscious is a different story obviously, and follows its own path.

The providence in dog poo

Had one of those situations occur the other night you'd rather not happen: A Rigby toilet malfunction.

When I first got him I would leave the back-door ajar overnight so that he could go out and do his business. About a month ago I started closing it when I went to bed, but only after I led him outside to do whatever needed doing. By and large no problems with that. He's a bigger boy now and well enough trained to know that you're not meant to be doing that stuff indoors unless you use the toilet proper - something that fascinates him, but which he has yet to master.

On the rare occasions he needs to pop outside he'll let me know. He'll get on the bed with his two front paws until I get up to let him out. This is not terribly convenient, but is better than the alternative. I was out all Saturday at the V Festival so possibly was a bit dopier than usual, and so did not respond as promptly as normally I do. By the time I twigged he was on the bed covers, come on mate I told him, getting out of bed, time to do your thing.

Coming back to my bedroom I noticed a suspicious odour. Certain that I had been too late I looked everywhere besides the obvious place left till last: on my bed. And there it was. This is not the sort of thing I want to go into too much detail normally, but maybe just this once.

Whether I like it or not I have become familiar with Rigby's poo over the last couple of months. Dogs are remarkably unfussed by the whole process, and so I've borne witness quite a few times to his little doings. Little is the operative word often - I scratch my head wondering why he has four small shits rather than one big one. I am often amazed by the supernaturally loud farts that come from his small body as he squats down. And cleaning up his mess I can now categorize in anthropological detail his typical um, droppings.

Having completed his toilet on my lovely faux suede doona cover I might have hoped for the more usual dryish small segments of poo, rather, as on this occasion, a large wet blurt that stained my doona cover. Adding to the general tone of the moment was the fact that he had somehow stepped in it afterwards, leaving tracks across my disarrayed sheets.

As you may imagine, I was not best pleased by this. It was 3.30am for God's sake, and here I was cleaning up dog poo, washing sheets and changing my bed, whilst Rigby looked on with affable indifference.

I couldn't even tell him off really. He'd tried to do the right thing, I'd just been too slow to respond. And it was clear from his mess that he had some sort of stomach problem, when you gotta go you gotta go. And he went.

Perhaps unsurprisingly this little episode let to some existential pangs once I was back in my freshly made bed, lights out. What is my life coming too, I wondered, cleaning up dog shit in the middle of the night. By now Rigby (or Superstar DJ, or Little Penii, as I occasionally call him), was happily snoring at the foot of the bed. What a life that is, I thought.

My angst was genuine though. I felt it deeply. I lay in the dark and wondered where I was in my life, and where I was headed. In times past I have wondered about my specific objects in my future - on this occasion it was more general and all pervasive. As water finds its own level, so to did my thoughts. My mind settled, I calmed even as I continued to pursue this line of thinking.

By now I was taking some comfort from the process. It seemed a necessary taking stock, although there was little concrete in my thoughts it seemed a necessary process. And at the same time I felt as if I had come back to an undeniable truth. I accuse myself sometimes of wishing things and so attuning my thoughts in that direction, but in this case my thoughts led me, like a dog lost finding its home. All these questions seemed resolved in that simple thing.

For the rest of the night I drifted between sleep and dreams. The dreams were all of a similar nature, as if designed to enlighten me. They showed different perspectives on the one thing I had been staring at with a single perspective. I recognised a mistrusting, afraid attraction.

Several nights previous I had similarly dreamed. I had been out, unwell but eating and drinking to fulfil my social obligations. Late, sitting in the familiar surrounds of Meyers Place I had received an interesting and disturbing message. I went to bed that night with that in me. I dreamt, and in the most revealing of my dreams saw myself as split in two. I was not one man, but two.

One was the man I think myself to be and largely portray in these pages: balanced, tolerant, intelligent, kind. Then there was the other man. He was all anger and bitterness. He felt wronged and wanted to let the world know of it. For all of that he was not an ugly character - his anger was understandable, and he was to be pitied more than feared.

It seemed to me when I woke the meaning was pretty clear. Those two men make up the single man who writes this, the angry man inside the  calm. I don't think there is much point in denying it, and I think to be fair I should live a little of it.