August Evening.

August Evening

I’m in the garden. Sunset to the left, not that I can see its orb depart behind the rooftops. Two pigeons coo in the trees to the right, sexually and lovingly fulfilled. Above me, airliners like small silver bullets leave white vapour trails across a sky bluer now than any witnessed in recent days. Occasionally there is a rumble across the heavens as they strain to gain altitude. Decades ago, I painted a portrait of an air hostess. This year she sent it back for lack of wall space. Or was that last year? I have no sense of time.

It’s been a good day. Emulsion paint has given way to spirit based undercoat, bare timber has turned white, and the kitchen has two new blinds. But last night was not a good night. I have a second recurring dream, worse really than the one about the open back door which I can never lock. Maybe if I write it down I’ll break its spell:

The dream finds me having to go back to work as a teacher. It seems someone made an error and I couldn’t leave after all. In the dream I have no control over the classes. No-one listens to me, and I’m forced to scream louder and louder and louder, but never gain their attention. I wake up alarmed and distressed. The dream bears no resemblance at all to the reality of my working life, where I always enjoyed positive relationships with my students. So maybe I don’t feel in control of my life right now, and the dream is a manifestation of that? Maybe. But enough about dreams.

A young couple with a baby have moved into the house opposite. It’s a nice sound. Every evening the man of the house seems to come home with something new for their garden: Wind chimes; a Buddha; ornamental animals. And he rides a multi-mirrored mod scooter. You have to like people who ride multi-mirrored mod scooters.

As for my own garden, I intend changing that around come September. The tree I bought with a previous girlfriend years ago, seems to be naturalized, extending now far beyond the 4 metres maximum height I was assured. It’s going to need trimming, but one has to “wait until the sap stops rising”. Unlike the way she left me without waiting for my sap to stop rising. I suppose rules are made to be broken.

The sun is almost gone. What now? Another mug of tea in my Workhouse souvenir mug? Or wine? One last hot tea I think. Time enough for wine later.

All text, pros, photos & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.