Cycling home from work last night I suddenly remembered a dream that I used to have repeatedly. The remembrance was so vivid that for several moments I wondered whether I’d mis-remembered it as a dream and that in fact the events were real.

The dream goes something like this:

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…a car, my car, as loved and safe and comfortable as a pair of old slipper, rusty, vaguely reliable, in the fluid form of dreams it has no particular make, but is almost recognisable as a battered Renault 4.
I park it, a carpark outdoor in woodlands, a car park on many levels and on returning from some unstated errand find I’ve lost the car…

 

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…there’s then a fade to traveling – up and down hills – there’s a sense of urgency, a sense of purpose. I’m on the trail of the lost car – perhaps? There are half-glimpsed views remembered from childhood. I’m traveling on something open, and low to the ground, yet fast – motorised? A soapbox racer or scooter with an engine perhaps?

Given that hard facts and confirmations are tantalisingly always just out of reach in a dream, and answers glimpsed only momentarily out of the corner of my eye, I can’t be clear about the vehicle, just the feeling that I’m close to the road, that the vehicle is small, and fast and simple.

…there’s also confusion, crossed-wires, miss-takes and complexities thrown in, blind alleys, cul-de-sacs and breathlessness…

That’s it.

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Nostalgia for simplicity, a sense of something lost or losing touch with things, a kinship with landscapes and countryside, with hills and views; and frantic rushing… it’s a dream that pretty much sums me up…
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