Heather Dalton
Photographer/Artist
Dreams. – Giving Birth and Making friends.
Once again, last night I had another spectacular dream. This time, I was a middle aged woman who I do not recognize as myself. As her I was in a bathtub, and it came about that as her I was pregnant, and realized that I was giving birth. There was no pain, and there was no noise. She simply sat there in the tub. At the point of realization she shouted for a man, who I recognized as her husband and he filled the tub with water, so much so that she slunk down and it covered just above her eyes, a centimeter away from the rim of the tub. She could not stop it herself for some reason so shouted spluttering for the man again. He came running and stopped the water. And with him came a group of people, all family or friends. And they brought with them things for the woman to have. And she was overwhelmed by this. She received many things at first. The most memorable, the grandmother brought coffee in what appeared to be a medicine cup with a lid. The woman drank it and slammed it down on the side of the tub, ready to grab and appreciate the next thing she had been given. But in doing so was scolded by the older woman, who was appalled by the way she had left the cup on the side. So the woman embarrassed lied about her pain, of which she could feel none and said that it was what caused her to leave the cup in such a manner. And it escalated so that the argument became a debate about different types of medicines. And the noise of this dulled the woman and she looked about the tub, she could see all forms of bottles, and medicines, painkillers, and gifts, all neatly stacked and guarding the rim of the tub, none of which she had known to have used. In the right hand corner of the tub was where her eyes settled because this was where the painkillers were. All different forms, and one of them, a liquid paracetamol, and it came about that in this instant the old woman’s conversation was diverted to debating with a young man about liquid paracetamol, and how she swore by it and how he would never touch it. Now in this same instance another scenario was taking place, a young woman one who I was but did not recognize as myself was in the process of getting to know a younger man, and approved an invitation that she would be picked up and met on the friday. And he would wear a wool tweed coat so that she would be able to recognize him. His parents were some form of pretend sleuths and he was being picked up by them for a visit to their house for dinner and he wished her to accompany him. She agreed, and as it was I that was her but not her my mind became muddled with the clashing of commitments. In the confusion, I went back to the middle aged woman in the tub. At this point she was truly having the baby and checked to see that she could feel his head. Then a panic rushed over her, and there was a stretching pain, and something was wrong. So the woman told the man and the family and the friends who loomed over her in curiosity and anticipation that she wanted the hospital. And at this stage she became into hysterics and so the family’s conversation darted about like lost chickens but none of them moved an inch. And the oldest woman the grandmother who believed in liquid paracetamol, demanded that the hospital could not do the rest for the woman and there was nothing that would change. And this comment in combination with the lack of action outraged the woman in the tub who was giving birth, and naked she grabbed her coat and crouched out of the tub. Then bent double, with only a coat, she was outside, and there was nothing but her and the road and the car she wanted to get into. And all else was light and confusion. And then there was laugher, because the baby began to piss. And a long line of urine began to stream out of the bent over woman, which was not from herself. And this I found hysterical, but recognized as strange and acknowledged as impossible. And the woman was humiliated, but she could not enter the car as the baby was still pissing. And there was no pain, only that of embarrassment. And the next thing the woman knew, she was in the hospital. And the baby was coming out backwards, and that was why he was pissing, and that was why what she felt was wrong. There were nurses conversations in the background about midwifery and the way things used to be, and how this would not have been allowed. The woman’s knickers were hiked up to her ankles, and her legs brought up over her head, and then the baby’s feet dropped out and his bottom, and then his arms and head slid out and followed. And this I recognized as strange and acknowledged was not possible. The woman giving birth felt no pain, and would have not even known it had happened had it not been for the excitement of the other women. She did not ask to see her baby, it was only that he was given, and she was told to give it a name. It was at this point she realized the impracticality of it as she had not thought of one. And in my mind I was muddled and attempted to help, thinking of names Ezra was one, but no. It began with an H and was some kind of family name which I did not recognize as my own. Hubert, no. Holden, maybe. It was a long H name, I do not remember quite what it was. And in this confusion I could hear muddled advice from the old woman, the grandmother who suggested this was why one should alway wear old knickers when giving birth. This I recognized as strange, and acknowledged was not right. And drifted into the conversation and impacience of the young girl who was waiting for the young man, but had forgotten what time he had said, and feared he would never turn up. She was busy, waiting tables or bussing them in some expensive restaurant and it had come to the end of her shift. Then, through the window she saw him, in his coat, and a funny hat, smiling and beckoning to her with a wave. So, she stopped what she was doing, and donned her coat, and when she was outside he took her hand, and explained that his parents were coming but that they were to meet them at a cafe. Looking at him, and looking at herself I realized that they were both wearing the same coat, my winter coat. Woven wool of grey and white and black, a smart coat were it not for the fact that it is missing three buttons. So the went to the cafe, and she was seated and he was seated. And the light only let me view her from the back. Leaning forward with her elbows on the table, and short wavy light brown hair. A white button up jumper, and a pair of jeans, remanicent of pastel blue skirts. The diner was empty but it was the place that young people would still meet. The young man left for the toilet, and she sat there fiddling with the napkins and waiting for her coffee. The tables were pale blue, and the counter had a wide rippled chrome edge, as did the red top stools. There she was waiting and the middle aged woman doing something in an alley, collecting water from the hose. A man and woman walked past and the middle aged woman dressed in black as the other two slightly groaned in bending, and they made a sharp comment. And to this her response was I have only given birth just yesterday. Then a man turned the corner babe in his arms, and they all prattled in affection, and the sounds of some satisfaction blurred the content of the scene. I heard a soft knocking and knew that I was asleep, but kept my eyes closed to see off the young woman who was waiting for the young man. He was of a familiar face, with soft features, and wavy hair, and he stood outside, and beckoned her to a black cab car, in his coat. And she on the other side of the glass oblivious sat waiting and fiddling with the napkins. The light glowed off her hair as if it were morning. And groups of young people were gathered on the street corner as if it were noon. And the resolution of the scenario was unmade up – but I was happy, and left it in this sensation.
Women. – research and reading.
As part of my research, to gain greater depth within the project I came across Paula James’ book Ovid’s Myth of Pigmalion on Screen. I have linked to Amazon because it allows you to “Look inside!”.
Being Holy. – The Flamingo Dream
Last night I went to bed as a Spiritualist and this morning I woke up as a Hindu. When I was asleep I had another most fabulous dream. This time I was walking along a promenade which ran along a river. I was joined by a man I recognised as my lover, but I do not recall his face. The river ran fast, and was full of flamingos. All pink and different colours of pink. The feathers, the patterns were extraordinary. Strangely, because the current was so strong the birds fished for the shrimp entirely under the water. And this I recognised, and acknowledged to be strange, but only spoke of the different colours of pink. We were the only ones strolling there, and there was no land, or vision, or water, or surface outside of the promenade and the river, and this to I recognised to be strange but did not speak of. After a point, the river started to narrow, or the current started to quick, which one it was I am not positive, perhaps it was both. But there, there was a man who stood at the crossing of the river and offered a contraption which appeared like a coffee scoop, to catch the gold, which he claimed floated within the river. This I acknowledged, and could see. However, once again more important was the colours and shapes of the birds which I knew as flamingos, all the different shades of pink, and patterns of pink, that made up the birds, like the shrimp that they fished for. They had yellow eyes, and I came about the supposition that flamingos got their pink from the shrimp and their yellow eyes from the gold, which speckled them when they were under water. But this did not concern my lover, and he was taken aback by the opportunity to fish for gold, and became engrossed in greed, and insistence. He insisted that we take the scoop and fish for the gold, but to this I refused. And the more engrossed my lover became in the cause the larger the visual justification for it grew, and the larger my embarrassment. And as I shrunk into shame, a booth grew out of the ground behind the man, and my lover who were both facing me. It was a red tent, with a sign. And then people appeared to grow like the booth, from out of the ground, in an act of custom began to cue. And soon the entire promenade was busy, and the river was dirty. And then when I would squint I could see that there was but a small booth, a table covered with a striped red and white canopy. And the people that were there, were flamingos, and trees. And then, the man put the scoop into my hand and the strangest thing happened. I awoke. But I was not awake, I was still asleep, and this I knew. And I acknowledged that it was strange, but did not speak of it. And in my dream I was asleep, and awake at the same time. I could see myself sleeping, and lay next to myself waking my lover and telling him of my dream. And then I knew that I was still dreaming. So the dream continued and I did many things, busy things. Chores, and achievements, running, fighting, screaming, all at once. Busy Busy Busy. And then, there was nothing, but the sky and the ground were only light. And there was the river, and the scoop to catch gold, and the flamingos that fished under the river which ran fast like the sea. And I was alone, and the man who offered the scoop became an old man, stooped, but in a far away land. And the river became a river of sand, and the flamingos, green snakes. And this I acknowledged, and recognised as strange. And I was afraid. I wanted to drop the scoop, but then it was metal and it turned to red and searing melted into my hand. And as my hand melted so did the rest of my body, and so did the sand. And all was but light. I was asleep, and I awoke in a hospital bed, and then I changed into memories of deja-vous, and doing things and being things. and getting things done. But still I knew I had not awoken. And after that I do not remember, but I awoke, this time for certain, and felt alone in my lovers bed.
Heather Dalton 