Dream Diary 2003

2003.09.15

The Walk.

I was very tired; I had been up until 2.20am working on some papers. I had left the house early, and was out walking with Sylvia. I had taken my camera with me. I was hoping to take some photographs for an exhibition I was going to have in a few months time. While walking through a field Sylvia had wandered off, and I couldn't see her. I walked on without her, but kept calling out her name. Two passers-by stopped as I called out. I needed a rest. I put down my things. I was carrying a lot: a camera bag, a small suitcase, a carrier bag, a coat, and a blanket. I spread out the blanket, and called out for Sylvia again. She didn't appear. I sat down, and wondered if she would find her own way back home. Cats have a reputation for doing that. I knew I had to get on the move again. The two onlookers were still there, and they were still looking at me. I gathered up my belongings. "Why had I taken so much?" I asked myself. I was having difficulty in carrying everything I had brought, and it was a hot day. 'How had I managed before?' I was in that area where country-folk, and towns-folk meet. I entered a suburb. There was a block of flats that looked as though it had once been a tythe barn. 'It must have been a very rich parish.' I thought. I stopped at one of the flat conversions; there was a passageway through the building. 'Why had they knocked a passageway through the barn,' I wondered. I could see a garden through the passage. There were people having afternoon tea in the garden. I wanted to go through the passage, but stopped myself. What could I say in such a situation? Suddenly, at my feet there was a small grey cat. It was so grey it was almost blue. It was a very thin cat, not because it was underfed, but because that was its nature. It rubbed itself against my leg. I put my case, carrier bag, coat, and blanket down. I stroked the cat. I thought I might appear suspicious, so I stopped stroking it. I didn't want to be accused of attempting to steal a valuable Siamese Blue, or was it Burmese? Cats are cats to me, and it doesn't matter what breed they are. I picked up my things, and resumed my journey. Beyond some houses a tall building dominated the skyline; it was like one of those huge grain silos you see in the grain belts of America. But this was England. I was curious. I walked on. I turned a corner. The mass of concrete was before me. Its grey silos pointed towards the heavens, like fingers held together in prayer. The sun streamed across the sides of the building at such an angle that it illuminated the texture of its surface. Every protruding feature cast a shadow that ran diagonally across it. At the side of the building was a huge hanger - under it was a boat. 'It was a big boat, more like a ship,' I thought. It was silhouetted against the light that was coming in through the far side. I wanted to take some photographs. I put my luggage down, and took my camera out of its bag. I checked my shutter speed, aperture, and turned the lens to focus in on the building. I checked that the film was rolled onto the next frame, and tightened the film - that was what I had intended only I opened the back of the camera instead. My last two shots had been exposed to light, and were ruined. I rolled the film on two frames, and one more for good measure - just to make sure I had a section of unspoilt film. The film stopped; it was at frame thirty-six! 'It's O.K.,' I thought, 'I have plenty of films in my bag.' I unwound the used film, and took a new film from the elasticated band inside my camera bag, and put it in the camera. I was all fingers, and thumbs, trying to get the film in the camera before the moment was lost. So the whole process took longer than usual. When I looked up, the huge doors to the hanger were closing in front of the ship. I wasn't in focus; I had moved the lens while I was changing the film. I re-focussed, but it was too late, the huge doors had reduced the silhouette of the ship to a fraction to what it was. I looked at the wall of the silo; the shadows had gone; the wall was featureless. There was no longer a subject worth photographing. I put the camera in its bag, and picked up my belongings. I had no photographs, and no cat. Where was she, and where was I? I had no idea.

Copyright 2003 by Terry Miles. 

2003.09.20

The Stall-holder.

It's raining; I'm at a street market; it's not a very large market - not like the one down Brick Lane. My shoes are letting in water. My feet are wet. I am trying on cardboard boxes over my shoes, but I can't get two that fit. It stops raining, but there are still puddles on the pavement. I give up trying to keep my feet dry. I hope the pavement will be dry, soon. I start talking to a stallholder. He is old, and over-weight. I ask him how much some of the shirts on his stall cost, but he misunderstands me, and thinks I am asking how much he has paid for them, and he won't tell me. I rephrase my question. "How much are you selling these for?" I point again at some shirts.
"It's all marked on the ticket," he says. I look at the ticket on the sleeve of a shirt. "Can I try to sell some of your stock for you?"
"I can't afford to pay you."
"Not even if I move most of it?"
"Maybe, depends on how much."
"Can I give it a try."
"Don't expect anything, that's all."
"Come on, give it a try; I'll give you a hand," a voice behind me says. He is about my age, and has a broad smile on his face. Is he encouraging me, or does he want me to make a fool of myself? I pick up a shirt. It has a grey and brown pattern on it. The colour combination is awful. The pattern is not very attractive. It has no style. "It's £2.50," the younger man says.
"One sleeve is longer than the other," the old, fat man says. I look at the shirt. One sleeve is longer than the other. I stand up on a box, and announce to the passers by the sale of the shirt. People start to stop. A crowd is gathering. "Who'll give me £2.50 for this shirt; one sleeve is longer than the other, but who will notice - you can always wear it under a pullover, or something; that's half the price you'll pay in Primart."
"I'll give you £2.00," a voice from the crowd calls out.
"Let's split the difference, £2.25," I shout back, "What's twenty-five pence?"
"I'll take it." I hand the shirt to the younger man, and the customer pays him the money for the shirt. The fat, old man comes up to me, and says, "What did you do that for; the label said £2.50."
"Just be glad you have sold it; you're lucky to hav found anyone to buy a shirt with one sleeve longer than the other."The fat, old man looks at me sternly, and says, "All the shirts have one sleeve longger than the other."

Copyright 2003 by Terry Miles.