Wine Dark With My Blood
Dreams of the Greenwich foot tunnel somehow being an analogue of a element of the Duat and travelling through it to meet Anubis at a church on the Isle of Dogs shifted with the fuzzy logic of dreaming into another losing Anne-Marie nightmare. I woke with a start, fumbled for the phone in the grey light to check the time and noticed the blood.
Everything was covered in blood. My Japanese robe. The pillow. The bedclothes. Even my chest hair. Everything stained with a still damp spill the colour of a good Tempranillo. At some point in the nightmare, I’d obviously suffered a bad nosebleed.
After waking up like that, I knew I had to take it easy today. When Messenger chatting to J and catching up on emails became uncomfortable, I rested on the bed listening to Khachturian’s Gayane and reading my new Chomsky book. Some tears crept out of the eyes, but the Leningrad Philharmonic doing ballet isn’t exactly known for reducing your emotional sensitivity.
Pit. A drop of blood splattered onto the open Chomsky. Pat. Another fell, creating that red, white and black colour scheme I’m so fond of. Pit. As the third drop fanned out and obliterated further words, I started to react. Too late. This was no light shower of rain, this was a full on monsoon. The fresh bedclothes were again wine dark with my blood.
Taking it easy doesn’t do a thing for heartbreak. It also seems as if it doesn’t do a do much to reduce the stress to a level where I’m not having to do two loads of washing a day.
Everything was covered in blood. My Japanese robe. The pillow. The bedclothes. Even my chest hair. Everything stained with a still damp spill the colour of a good Tempranillo. At some point in the nightmare, I’d obviously suffered a bad nosebleed.
After waking up like that, I knew I had to take it easy today. When Messenger chatting to J and catching up on emails became uncomfortable, I rested on the bed listening to Khachturian’s Gayane and reading my new Chomsky book. Some tears crept out of the eyes, but the Leningrad Philharmonic doing ballet isn’t exactly known for reducing your emotional sensitivity.
Pit. A drop of blood splattered onto the open Chomsky. Pat. Another fell, creating that red, white and black colour scheme I’m so fond of. Pit. As the third drop fanned out and obliterated further words, I started to react. Too late. This was no light shower of rain, this was a full on monsoon. The fresh bedclothes were again wine dark with my blood.
Taking it easy doesn’t do a thing for heartbreak. It also seems as if it doesn’t do a do much to reduce the stress to a level where I’m not having to do two loads of washing a day.
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