Have decided to record bits and pieces of those dreams which some people who read this, can identify with. Last nite, dreamt that P., my coz, and I were wondering in some rag-tag flea market. And discovered, in this delightful little bookshop, with dusty panes, and fading sunlight coming through the windows, and an old man pottering around after us, while we took in the wonderful smells of old books.. these old old notebook sort-of things, which were relics of P. and my past.. childish scribbles, recording random things.
My dida teaching us both English, on a weekend afternoons, from fairytales/storybook like text..
The two of us struggling manfully to write our own version of an M&B, about a female oceanographer and a man on the team, who calls her “boss”.. even at age 10/12, we were well on the way to emancipation. :)
And sepia toned pictures of the two of us, in an assortment of other people, pigtails and scruffy elbows, at diamond harbor, gorging on eelish maach.. P. did we EVER take pics that time?
In real life, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, for the life of me, remember our handwritings of all those years ago. But here it was like crystal..
The subconscious is a wonderful thing..