Last night I dreamed about Avery Island kizukishu paper. I dreamed I was repairing a book that had only been half written and that it was in the hollowed cavity of my chest, so I was essentially repairing myself, with wheat paste. But I had kudzu in my hair and surely it should have been Spanish Moss? Or had I drifted too far of course, away from the Chicora River and just gotten lost. Or was it even me? I thought I recognised the reflection but how do you know it if it is yourself? And when you realise what you're trying to repair isn't linen or velum but nitrate film and that you are highly compustable?
The sleep paralysis came next. That panicky feeling of not being able to move my limbs or cry out. Cold, forbidding, but familiar. I wish I could remember the context. I can still smell that silver nitrate vingegary smell, though. *Shudder*
But then today, I was near my old stomping grounds and it felt so right. How is it a year ago, I was daunted by the idea of returning to London and now I am reconsidering that in the next 2 years it isn't the wrong step? I don't hate my life here. But I do need a bit more...something...a bit more on my doorstep. A bit more of my life on my life.
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