Pig Dreaming Again

 

I was going to write a post about unreliable memories but it turns out I am too tired. Instead here is a recycled post about dreaming and remembering that is, I think, mostly true...

I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.

Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.

The Hannas were a nice respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.

I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.

Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.

Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.

Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.

I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother who brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.

The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.

I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. The Hannas are all gone now, every one of them.

In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

Walking and Sleeping

Since I started wearing my I Can't Believe It's Not A Fitbit I've been obsessed with my sleeping patterns. My average sleeping time is 7hr and 40m which is good and if I find, on waking up, that I've slept 6 hours or less I return to bed to catch an extra hour. This will be after going outside with Cleo for at least ten minutes (rain or hail) to supervise her morning pees and poos for, if I don't, she shamelessly does it in the house. 

Back to sleeping. I started reading Paul Lynch's Prophet Song a couple of days ago and even though I've barely got into it I had a vivid dream about living in a police state. There were two factions, Tories and Nazis and we ordinary people were living in fear. My dream featured a long urban street, lots of people around, uniformed Police/soldiers dotted in every other doorway and all the people were white. All the black and brown people had disappeared. It was scary and I was glad to wake up from it.

In better news since I got the ICBINAF I have been walking every day without fail and feel much better for it. Walks usually find me in the woods but if I have errands in town I might walk there. Yesterday it was Belfast and I expected to clock up plenty of steps. We were meeting friends for lunch and left the choice of venue to them. It was five minutes from Great Victoria Street Station. But, despite lack of walking opportunities the place was great, food was good and the company enjoyable. Drink was nice too. We decided to do it again soon. In Barcelona. I need a new passport. An Irish one this time. 

Counting Sheep in 2016

 I found this scrap of a post today on an old external hard drive. Written 22nd November 2016.

On nights when I find myself tired but not quite ready to fall into sleep I have a number of little mind games to help lull me over. These vary from a winning the lottery fantasy (I never play the lottery) and how I would dispose of my fortune. I’d need at least £7,000,000 as I have a very big family. Sometimes, if I don't wish to excite myself too much I just try to remember all the 32 counties of Ireland.

Back when I was a teenager, I’d be deciding in which order I’d date the Monkees and which of them I’d eventually marry and raise children with. It was always either Davy Jones or Mickey Dolenz and I only went out with Peter Tork once and then we just held hands. You know, thinking back, I never once planned my wedding or thought about a wedding dress. It was always about what Davy and I (or Mickey and I) were going to call our huge family of mostly female children. Lord! I was so young.

Last night I found a new method of helping myself nod off. A fantasy of having Donald Trump killed.

I must have been feeling slightly better the following week when I wrote and posted this,

And what of my inner life? Well... I'm still trying to come to terms with what appears to be the new world order and the rise of the right. At least I'm not dreaming about killing that man any more. Negative energy Nelly, negative energy.

It's been a long four years.

Six More Sleeps

Nellybert received an unexpected Christmas gift yesterday evening and it was just as well I had my amazing, covers all eventualities, delicious chilli jam to reciprocate. Awesome on turkey sandwiches, I said. He said, how is it on beefburgers? Even more unbelievably awesome, I said.

The gift sat on the kitchen island. I'm perfectly happy to wait until Christmas Day before opening but I suspect it is biscuits. Bert says, what is it? I urge him to wait and see. He picks it up and rends a great tear in the wrapping. I pounce on it, sellotape in hand and re-wrap before he gets a chance to peek.

Did your mother allow you to open presents before Christmas?

Aye. Pearlie didn't give a fuck.

Honestly! That woman didn't have one single ounce of Christmas spirit. Apparently, they had tinned peas with their Christmas dinner. Can you imagine?

Not one thing prepared for Christmas today. I thought about the wreath. And I helped the postman. He was delivering mail on the road where I was out walking (briskly) and he asked me to put some cards in a postbox at the end of some farmer's lane. I mightn't say which road as it is, no doubt, a disciplinary matter to allow the unanointed to handle Her Majesty's mail. One other thing I did which was sort of Christmassy was get up at half-three in the morning and take Hannah to her work which she is starting particularly early because of Christmas. Home again within thirty minutes and straight back to bed. I awoke at seven from a dream where I was about to hang a raggedy, bearded man. Yesterday I was skinning my favourite cat. It's such a blessing that I am able to escape my violent and bloody nightmares.

The wrong kind of peas

Boring Post About Being Happy

Apparently accounts of happiness are rather tedious, whereas tales of misery are tremendously interesting. This makes sense. If happiness were interesting there would be no country music, no soap operas, no Game of Thrones, no murder mysteries, no Celeb Culture. Imagine a world where Kerry Katona had a trouble-free birth or Katie Price had a happy marriage. How horrific would it be that a soap opera wedding should pass without incident, or a Game of Thrones wedding pass without mass carnage and regicide? Unhappiness and misery are very newsworthy.

This is why today's post will be boring.

I started my day with an early morning dream.

Other people's dreams are so very tedious, are they not? But this is my blog and I'll be boring if I want to.

My dream was tremendously entertaining and quite surreal - as dreams often are. My younger brother and I were driving slowly down the length of the road we lived on for most of my young life. And where he still lives. It was the gloaming. Things had changed. There were new houses on the road and  many of them had the same interesting flower growing in the gardens. It was tree height, but not a tree. It was a sky-blue campanula, gigantic, with flowers bigger than a human head. And there were birds roosting in plum trees at the side of the road. At first I thought they were magpies but then saw they were jays, hundreds of them. Just as campanulas do not grow higher than houses, neither do jays flock in hundreds. We decided to visit our neighbour. She was just as she always was, always has been for more than fifty years. And this too was surreal for, in real life, our neighbour is not as she was.

I was wakened by someone calling - Mary. For this is my real name, not Nelly. I pretend to Nelly. It was part of the dream and it called me to wakefulness.

An enjoyable dream can just set up the day. There was good weather. I did necessary chores then I spent the rest of the day gardening. Nothing makes me happier. I did not have to go out, visitors were scarce. At six I started dinner, at seven we ate it, at eight I poured us a gin, at nine I had a bath. Happy all day. What an achievement. What a delight.

Dragging My Feet

I awoke this morning from an unpleasant dream in which I had hacked an unknown male to death with a kitchen knife. At first I was very relieved to find it was a dream but then felt disturbed to have dreamed the dream.

I am trying to watch The Curious Case of Benjamin Button but am rapidly losing interest. It was moderately enjoyable when Benjamin was old and decrepit but now he is looking more like Brad Pitt I don't care for it so much.

I could watch this week's episode of Homeland instead.

Or I could finish this blog post.

I have two books on the go and I have a chapter left of each one and I cannot seem to get round to finishing them.

I did not go to the post office today to post Kerry Sister's present.

I have a cold and feel very tired.

But is it any wonder I feel a bit flat when I read this interpretation of my horrible dream?

Murder

To dream that you have committed a murder indicates that you are putting an end to an old habit and a former way of thinking. This could also refer to an end to an addiction. Alternatively, the dream indicates that you have some repressed aggression or rage at yourself or at someone. Note also that dreams of murder occur frequently during periods of depression.

Knife

To dream that you are carrying a knife signifies anger, aggression and/or separation. There may be something in your life that you need to cut out and get rid of.  Perhaps you need to cut ties or sever some relationship. Be more divisive. Alternatively, a knife refers to some sexual tension or sexual confrontation.

Blood

To see blood in your dream represents life, love, and passion as well as disappointments. To dream that others are bleeding signifies an emotional cry for help.

Guilt

To dream that you feel guilty about something relates to how you are handling your successes and failures or competence and incompetence. You may feel undeserving of your achievements. Or on the other hand, you feel that you have let others down. Alternatively, the dream is symbolic of repressed and negative feelings that you may have about yourself.

Here is a photograph of a kitten to cheer us all up.

Spit of the Devil

After a few fine, bright days the rain came back. I had made the most of the fine weather gathering blackberries and rose hips by day and making, progressing and tasting country wine in the evenings. Wednesday was a very productive day for I was out in the fields for hours berrying and listening to Nelson Mandela's 'Long Road to Freedom'. The reading was so engrossing that I probably stayed out longer than I had intended.

Nearly twenty years ago, and after a few failed attempts, I finally passed the driving test and got my driving licence. Within weeks I decided that I'd make the trip to visit my sister in Kerry. It was quite a journey back then, as roads were not as good and there were many little towns and villages that could not be bypassed. I was over ten hours on the road and by the time I got to the sister's house, ten miles west of Dingle, I was completely exhausted. It was good to get to bed that night. The only problem was that every time I nodded off to sleep I woke with a jolt, my hands on a steering wheel and the dusty road ahead of me. I've never had such an experience before or since - until Wednesday night.

That day in the fresh air and the evening sterilising, racking, stirring and tasting had me ready for a good night's sleep. My only problem was that each time I drifted off I was jolted awake, my hand stretched out to pick just one more juicy berry...

Postscript: Bert has just informed me that blackberries picked after the 29th September are 'no good.'

Who says so?
Alan Titchmarsh. He says that after the 29th September they are as bitter as gall.
Why?
Because the devil spits on them.

Idle Thoughts

The alarm goes off at 7am and I hit the snooze button.

7:05am RINGGG! I'm wondering what to do about the vintage Orange Order collarette in the attic. I hit the snooze button.

7:10am RINGGG! Trying to figure out the names of Adam Lambsbreath's cows in Cold Comfort Farm. Let me see - there's Pointless, Aimless, Feckless and what is the other one called? I hit the snooze button.

7:15am RINGGG! Pondering the minister's reading at yesterday's funeral service. Dorcas/Tabitha. Would those be good names for girl twins? Technically they are the same name just as Zoe and Eve are. I hit the snooze button.

7:20am RINGGGG!!!! There's this clairvoyant in Randalstown I'm going to later. She channels through an eel. Holy shit! I'm dreaming! Time to get up.

Another Normal Day

I woke just before 7am and decided not to get up. Immediately I fell into dreams. I dreamed that my mother was dying and that I held her in my arms and would not let her go. We lived in a succession of damp, dilapidated and tumbledown sheds and still I would not let her go. She got frailer and smaller and eventually she was as small as a baby. She was my baby, she was also another person called Shirley and still she was my mother. She was dying and I had to get her a coffin. She was small enough to fit in an infant's casket but I knew that because she had been a woman I needed to get her a woman-sized coffin.

These are the dreams I have without opiates. God only knows what Matty dreams. She told my sister, in one of her lucid moments, that it was like 'being in two places at once.'

Today was my Miss Martha day. We went to Matty's then out for a run with Great Aunt Ganching (with whom Miss Martha has become most enamoured). Next home to see Bert, a picnic on the lawn and a very relaxing afternoon with toys and pigs and dogs.

When Martha went home I spent a while watering the vegetables (this will be my role and it is a very important one) and then gathering sticks, a proper outdoor barbecue (no charcoal) and pork chops, spinach and baked potatoes for supper.

Another normal day. Tomorrow I go shopping for funeral clothes.