Eh voilà, me voici à Londres.
Visiting or hosting pals, abasing myself to sundry government bodies to establish residential bona fides, search for employment or financial lifelines, et ilk.
I'd've lived in a cardboard box and flattened aluminum in the bowels of Safeway to've stayed on BI. But there ya go: London and next stop-ple Greece.
Nitemare off Elm Street: funnily, there *is* an Elm Street just round the corner; posh rue 'n' all.
Yes, I'm having these nightmares and am a believer that they tap one's subconscious and tell you what youre really thinking.
Simple drama, really, and lifelike which makes it all the more sweaty.
I'm in Greece but outside the house with some implement in my hand and bending to some task like leaf scraping or earth turning. I look up and it's the house in every feature, not some ghastly Vincent Price abode. I look back down and the spade or hoe or whatever is still in my hands and the leaves are there and the earth is there.
For some stoopid reason, i don't hurl it to the ground and make my getaway; i stand - or stoop - there as if stuck with effing yard work.
I wake with a start and, you know how it is in those first seconds, you're panicked that it's real ....
Galvanised, i leap from my bed and scan the London want-ads and go thru my address book one more time for anyone i might have missed who might have some lowly task for pitiful pay.
It clearly means something but I'm in sufficient denial not to face up to whatever evil I've performed to be picturing myself in such a Dante-esque inferno.