Tag Archives: airport


Last night I dreamed that I went to Scotland with Anthony.

I remember we were the airport and I remember Anthony.

But as always my cats woke me up.


Three Dreams

Before my cats started fighting this morning I was dreaming, and sleeping a very deep and satisfying sleep. Three dreams.

Dream 1:

A huge expanse of land, a dry, hard packed, white-ochre soil flat and extending as far as you can see. In the middle of it I am standing, surrounded by a huge ancient building. Stone buildings, over a hundred stories high, a mix between western Asian and Chinese architecture – or at least what I think it is western Asian and Chinese architecture with my limited knowledge. – The buildings are topped with hugs long, Chinese dragons. I stand in the middle of a semicircle formed by the buildings, in the middle of the day, a bright, cold day in the middle of the desert.

I wanted to leave, immediately, I knew what was coming. Like in a b-rated horror movie  vampires would come out of the buildings, they would turn the blue sky black and we would all be dead.

Dream 2:

People for work, colleagues, all in a bus. There was an office building but I don’t remember where or why I was there. But I remember coming down a flight of stairs and getting in a bus.

Dream 3:

I was at the airport waiting for a plane, and I was with him,  A. We were laughing, sitting across each other at a table, his back to the airport windows. He has his right leg crossed over this left one, his laughing and sassing me and I’m sassing him back. We are talking about his sister, and a letter written in pink stationary.


Blue skies and no cloud in sight, I look down at my feet and there they are, in my black stockings but, where are my shoes? I can feel the pavement, but it’s cold not warm as you would expect. I am smiling, I can feel it. I’m laughing to, I can hear it. As I climb in the car I look around, there you are, and also there they are. The car is black, and so is your suit, and . . . all our clothes. I am wearing black, that’s not unusual.

There you are, but your hair is different, slightly longer and less . . . perfect. You look good, are we together?

We go to dinner with your friends but I don’t know what we are having I can’t see the dishes. I look around, at the round tables with white linens, and the people chatting and laughing and I see you smiling at me, and I see . . . me, laughing as you touch my leg under the table.

I am wearing a black dress, that is unusual, and pantyhose, even more unusual.

You laugh, which I have only seen you do when you have  had a few drinks.

We behave with the familiarity that comes from sharing a bed.