Is my aunt an elephant? (Genuine question)

Are there any dream interpreters around? Vaguely uneasy about last night’s dream – I was at my grandparent’s old house in the country, but the house was all vacant and rickety and a lot smaller than usual. It was a grey day, with rain clinging to leaves ( I remember that bit vividly), and I wandered over to a field of horses, except they weren’t horses – they were elephants. And then the elephants started to lumber towards me and I could hear their breath, which was sort of asthmatic and laboured, so I climbed a crumbling wall to greet them (even though they were a bit frightening) but my foot got stuck in a massive spider’s web that was full of massive spiders. Then I woke up.

Hm. Written down like that it just sounds silly.

The weirdest thing is that I wrote a dumb poem about my aunt last night, who doesn’t look anything like an elephant but she does have asthma.

Anyway, have been in creative rut the last few days – I’ve been trying to write something for National Novel Writing Month (I refuse to call it NANOWRMO or whatever the hell) so I’ve been gleefully typing without care or grace and then mournfully deleting everything in the morning.

I don’t know. Every sentence I write makes me feel physically sick. Like all other things, it seems that writing depends on my notoriously fickle mood – I go to bed a genius and wake up an idiot. At this rate I’ll be lucky to have a limerick by the end of November.

I write something and think ‘oh no, that’s far too wordy and self-conscious’ so I re-write it and think ‘well, that could have been written by a particularly dim chimp’ and I can never, ever find that sweet spot where I write like a clever yet unpretentious chimp who really knows what he’s doing. I feel frustrated with myself because I know I was a better writer a few years ago. I should never have taken so much time off. Ah well, practice practice.

This is going to sound weird – but with poetry, I always think…a couple of bad lines don’t fuck up the poem. I always gauge a good poem on how I feel right at the end – the impression it’s had on me. If there’s only one beautiful line – well, that’s enough for me. But with prose I feel that every sentence must be as good as the rest. If I read a clunky line in a book , it jars  – like meeting someone for the first time and they suddenly come out with a racist joke. Whatever they’ve said previously doesn’t matter anymore. The joke has ruined it all. So let’s just say that every writing effort over the past few days has been just me, sat in front of a laptop, telling racist jokes.

Anyway. Enough with this foolishness. Maybe I’ll write a book about elephants or something. I shall call it ‘Water For Elephants’.

ps -Have managed to ask my mother’s cleaner to come around once a week,  so at least that’s one thing done. Oh, also, my heart’s doing a weird thing. Not a weird ‘love’ thing – something else. Eh, it’ll probably sort itself out.

pps – I do not have a date with the nurse anymore due to a drunk text.


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