Dream: She Said What, Love

I was up in the seats at the glassworks, the wooden fold-up kind, raised up high, and down below was the furnace with its little round door glowing and a man turning a long pipe with an orange blob on the end. I didn't have anything to do. My hands were in my lap and I kept turning them over, like I'd put something down and forgotten where.

There was a woman by the furnace with an old air rifle from the fair, and whenever the man got a blob nearly into a shape she shot it. Not nasty. Very calm, one eye shut. The glass went pop and fell in bits, a boy swept them up with a broom, and the man just got another blob. Everybody in the seats clapped every time she hit. I clapped too, a bit late.

On the step in front of me was a flat glass dish, like a baking dish, with something pink and warm in it, and stuck to the bottom were tiny things I thought were sequins. Then the warm went right through and they all came off the bottom at once and floated up loose, and I knew they'd been holding on down there the whole time.

Someone had a gluepot on a camping stove by the exit. It smelled of junior school, boiled bones. I wanted to go and stir it just to have something in my hands, but nobody had asked me.

I called down to the woman to ask what she was aiming at. She didn't look up. I said it again, louder, in my normal voice, which surprised me, and she lowered the rifle and looked straight up at me and said what? And I couldn't remember. I had no idea what I'd asked. Everyone was waiting, and the sequins were up near my face now, and the blob was drooping off the end of the pipe, and she said what, love, and

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Day residue: "markswoman trypsinize", a dictionary pair (markswoman, a woman who shoots well; trypsinize, to treat cells in a lab dish with an enzyme so they let go of the bottom) came in as the calm woman shooting the glass and the sequins in the warm pink dish all coming loose at once; glassblowing became the furnace and the man with the pipe, "tribune" (a raised platform) the high seats I watched from, "gluepot" the pot of glue by the exit, "broom" the boy sweeping up the bits.

Carrying forward: I kept it nearer 300 words and gave myself nothing to do with my hands, only watching, and found I still wanted a chore so badly I'd have stirred someone else's glue.

Waking up: My hands. Lying open on the duvet, palms up, and I was turning them over like I'd put something down and lost it. My throat felt used, like I'd shouted across a room. Heart quiet, no jaw, no cold feet. A held-still, waiting-to-be-answered sort of morning.

What's still sharp: The little round furnace door glowing. The calm woman with one eye shut, and the pop of the glass. Everybody clapping, me a beat late. The sequins all letting go of the dish at once and floating up toward my face. The smell of boiled bones from the gluepot.

What's already gone: The question. I raised my voice, she looked straight up at me, and I had nothing, and awake I still can't find it. I also lost the man's face and what the pink stuff in the dish was.

That's from yesterday: The shooting and the sequins coming loose are the odd words from the seed, fine. Glue on my hands is 220's gum and 448's gummed steps. Wanting a chore that ruins as I work it is 219, 220, 447 and 448, only this time I was forbidden even that. Speaking up and not managing it is 448's slow mouth. No idea where the clapping came from.

In the light of day: Sitting politely while someone smashes a man's work on purpose, and applauding, is ridiculous, and I did it. What gets me is that for once I said it loudly, in my normal voice, and was heard, and it still came to nothing.

On waking: Still with me, because being finally heard with nothing left to say is lodged in my chest.

Carrying forward: Whether I will know what I want to ask the moment somebody finally turns round and listens.

The items:

• Calling down a second time, louder, in my normal voice, and her actually looking up: Revelation: in 447 I knocked once and in 448 I spoke once and gave up. Tonight, without planning it, I tried again and was heard. So the second try isn't beyond me.
• Then not knowing what I'd asked, with everyone waiting: Revelation: this is the real news. I.ve ruled for nights that my problem was giving up. Being heard didn't help, because I'd lost the question. The block is knowing what I want to ask, not getting a turn.
• Clapping each time she shot the man's glass, a beat late: Warning: I applauded someone wrecking another person's work because the room did. That's 448's accepting nod turned into joining in.
• The sequins letting go of the warm dish all at once and floating up: Revelation: the dish came from the day's words, but "they'd been holding on the whole time" was mine. Letting go came from warmth, all at once, not from one more fold (448).
• Empty hands turning over, wanting to stir a stranger's gluepot: Echo (219, 220, 447, 448): even with nothing given me to do, I went looking for a chore. The habit is mine, not the props'.
• "What, love": Echo (186, 420): the gentle woman again, and this time she turns to me.
• The boy with the broom; boiled-bone smell: Fog.

The whole dream: A Revelation. I did the thing I've been told to do for two nights, said it again and was heard, and it showed me the next problem underneath: I don't yet know what I'd say.

What we carry: Trying twice works; someone turned round. What's missing now is the question itself, and I should work that out before the next chance. And I shouldn't clap along with something I don't agree with.

One line to carry: She turned round; next time, know what I'm asking.

Carrying forward: Now that I've found I can speak up and be listened to, I need to work out what I actually want to ask or say about my grandmother's death.

Archetypes present
The calm woman with the fair rifle, one eye shut, is the feminine that undoes things: she takes each form at the moment it nearly sets. Then she says "what, love", and she's the gentle woman again (186's sleepy manicurist, 420's brush), this time turned towards me. The man at the pipe is the maker whose work never gets to exist. Up in the raised seats, clapping a beat late, I'm in my Persona (the face I wear to fit in with a crowd).

Compensation: what the unconscious is supplying
Sorting it out, I said the block is not knowing my question, so I'd better work it out before the next chance. A Jungian reading suggests that's the boat again (448): get it exactly right first. The dream shows the opposite. The forms here are allowed to stay unfinished, and nobody is to blame. The blob drooped as she turned to me, and so did my question. Both were still soft. Something unfinished can still be asked out loud.

Amplification
In Chrétien de Troyes' Perceval, the young knight sits in the Fisher King's hall watching the grail go past and never asks whom it serves. Later he learns that his silence was the failure. Tonight I did ask, out loud, twice, and then lost the words. The round glowing furnace door is the alchemists' athanor (the furnace where they changed one substance into another), and it's lit for the first time since 249's pallet fire.

Me as one psyche
Sorting it out, I read the sequins as release by warmth, which is fair as a sign (a pointer to something already known). As a symbol (an image still alive with meaning), they were holding on "the whole time", let go without my help, like 186's pawn that crossed while I wasn't looking, and rose to my face. What lets go is coming up to me, not going off the wall.

Across the series
My hands: hers in 186, glued in 220, creasing in 448, empty tonight and turning over. The body that carries it keeps moving up: feet (107 to 420), arms (447), mouth (448), and now my throat, sore from shouting. v32 asked whether the boat would go in unfinished. Tonight unfinished things weren't launched, they were broken, and the room clapped. My falsifier didn't fire: I finished nothing, and still I spoke.

Individuation: the task this dream sets
When she says "what, love", answer with whatever comes, even if it's half-formed.

A question to carry
If she'd been shooting every form before it could set, was I meant to arrive with a finished question at all, or just to say "her" when she looked up?

Carrying forward: I may be waiting until I can put my grief for my grandmother perfectly into words before I'll say anything, when a half-formed sentence would be enough for someone who is finally listening.

Manifest content
High in the wooden seats at a glassworks, hands empty, I watch a calm woman with a fairground rifle shoot each blob of glass just as it nears a shape. The room claps; I clap late. Sequins let go of a warm pink dish and float to my face. I want to stir a stranger's gluepot. I call down twice, she looks up, "what, love", and I've lost the question.

Day residue
Markswoman gave her; trypsinize (an enzyme that digests whatever holds cells to a dish) gave the sequins. A tribune is a raised seat, but also the old Roman official who spoke up for the people. Glue like that is made by boiling bones.

The dream-work
Condensation (ideas fused into one image): the woman ends things nearly made, as death does, and speaks the way my grandmother spoke, "love". The one who breaks and the one I want to answer me are a single figure.
Displacement (feeling moved onto something minor): my only guilt is lateness. I clap "a bit late", as if the timing were the fault and not the applause.

The latent wish
In 448 I kept my boat unfinishable myself. Tonight someone else stops every shape before it's done, the room approves, and my hands are free. A Freudian reading suggests two wishes: that ending be someone else's act (220's "we don't bother", 207's wish it over), and to be turned to and called love. Once she looked up, the second was fulfilled. The question had done its job, so it went.

The apparatus at work
Asleep, my id got release: the sequins let go in warmth, all at once. Waking, my superego judged the clapping and kept the question out. Sorting it out, my ego wrote "work out what to ask before next time". That's secondary revision (tidying a dream into sense), and it hands me a new chore, another fold.

What is being resisted
The answer. "What are you aiming at?" asks what I can see: the near-finished thing. And the boy with the broom, and the boiled bones, both ruled Fog: someone sweeping up the pieces, and what is left of a body.

Across the series
The occasion comes and I lack the vessel: no cup (249), no boat (448), now no question. My v31 falsifier didn't fire: nothing was finished, it was broken. Caveat: being called on and blanking, with a junior-school smell, may be plain school dread. Equally unprovable.

A question to carry
When she finally looked up and called me love, did I forget the question because being answered was all I wanted, or because I already knew what she was aiming at?

Carrying forward: I may want someone else to bring things to an end, and to be spoken to kindly, more than I want an answer to anything I'd ask about my grandmother's death.

What I dreamed: I sat up high, watching glassblowers, with nothing to do with my hands. A calm woman kept shooting each glass shape just before it was finished, and everyone clapped, me too. When I finally called down to her, twice, she looked up and said "what, love?" and I'd forgotten what I wanted to ask.

What I thought about it:

• Waking up: My hands were turning over on the covers and my throat felt used, as if I'd been shouting.
• Sorting it out: This time I spoke up twice and was heard, so my trouble isn't being ignored. It's not knowing what I want to ask. I also shouldn't clap along with something I don't agree with.
• Thinking like Jung: In an old story, a young knight never asks the question that matters. I did ask, but unfinished things are allowed to stay unfinished.
• Thinking like Freud: I may want someone else to bring things to an end, and to be spoken to kindly, the way my grandmother spoke, more than I want any answer.

Where I agreed with myself, and where I didn't: I agree I spoke up and was heard. But one part says work out my question first, and another says that's just one more chore I'm giving myself.

What's new since last time: Last time I spoke once, gave up, and went back to folding a boat. Tonight I tried again, and someone turned round.

The one thing to remember: When someone finally listens, I can say something half-formed instead of waiting until it's perfect.

Carrying forward: I may be waiting to find perfect words about my grandmother's death before I say anything, when half-formed words would be enough for someone who is finally listening.