It’s a challenge to talk about dreams. The true dreams, not the things one wants out of life or the things they dream about at night. Those are easy. The former are part of one’s identity and the content of the second you are not responsible for.  If I should night-dream of being engaged to Delboy, I could share it with everyone and have a laugh. If I should daydream about it, on the other hand, people would most certainly think I have a major crush on him and that I have bad taste in men.

And that’s why sharing dreams is so difficult, so unwise. People tend to take them seriously. They become something quite other when shared. Frankly, even I would be more inclined to take them seriously once brought to the real world. While they are swimming around in my head, being nothing but stray thoughts and fancies, I’m not responsible for them. They are mine, but are not part of my identity. They are just visitors. Some I spend a little time with and hear them out, others are but fleeting glimpses into possibilities I want nothing to do with. Being prone to daydreams is part of my identity, but the substance of my dreams is an amorphous thing. I’ve never tried to define it or paid particular attention to it.

Sometimes, when I become conscious of the content of my dreams – most of the time I’m not – I can be a little surprised and amused. What on earth did I just dream of? Hold your horses, where do you think you are going with your thoughts? But of course, I usually carry on and pay no attention to reason or rightness.

I don’t dream very often these days. When I was younger, my favourite thing was to daydream myself to sleep. Sometimes I was quite annoyed when sleep came and I had to continue the following night. I even remember some of my dream landscapes. Things like a certain yellow wooden house with two-storeys. I lived in the upper storey and had a view of a vast empty field. Such dreams I indulged in and made permanent companions of for long periods of time. Maybe those would be part of my identity.

But then there is the other kind, the one-time dreams. Let’s suppose I entertained the thought of what a great monarch I’d make and how I’d rule the world. If I spoke of it publicly – if I said I’ve dreamt of ruling the world (or Europe) – I’d be taken more seriously than I’d ever have meant it. Psychologists would prick up their ears: hmm, delusions of grandeur? Narcissistic or bipolar personality disorder? Mania episode?

And so, one fancy is taken out of the millions and added to my personality map. I don’t mean to say that the things I daydream about have no connection to who I am and are unwanted intrusions, but that there are so many one-time idle fancies of no significance that extracting any would lead to severe misunderstandings. So they stay in the dream world. All the bizarre, evil and too beautiful things alike. My dream world really has no boundaries other than those of the imagination.

I can share a  few, but most stay where they belong.

And now, one totally unembarrassing and uncontroversial dream: I caught myself missing the presence of flowers. To the point that if I had any space and not a cat that eats everything when in a bad mood, I’d get ten pot plants and fill ten vases with various flowers. Daffodils, roses, more daffodils, and hyacinths. Such a longing for colours and scents. I’m going to spam the blog with flower pictures as a result.




These little white flowers smell the best! Even if they don’t look like much theirs is one of my favourite scents.


This is my own peony. I was so proud of it when it actually blossomed for the second year.

This is my own peony. I was so proud of it when it actually blossomed for the second year.




Of all days, that day

It struck me just now. Why do I remember those days of all days?

One could have countless vivid memories, but I have days where nothing happened etched upon my mind. Vividly. My spots of pause and poetry.

My first year of school. I walk home on one of those golden autumn afternoons. It is still warm, the sun is out, the trees are tinged with a mixture of yellow and green. Nothing happened. I walked. I dreamt. I realised at some point on the road that I had not paid attention to where I was. My thoughts were too absorbing, whatever they were. I recall the surprise at having got home completely unmindful of the road. It was lovely.

Another moment of pause and poetry from early childhood. I sit on the staircase of our veranda. I have a bowl of strawberries with milk and sugar in my hand. It must be early July. The sun is soon to set and now peaks through the treetops, giving the greens of the garden a golden hue. It’s a very warm evening. I am barefoot and totally happy.

A later one. Of which I even have photographic evidence. I have gone for a stroll in the park. It is October and already chilly, but not overwhelmingly so. It remains pleasant, the crisp air and the smell of decaying leaves. I wear two ponytails and a red coat. I think of my sweetheart and send him a text message. I feel hope amidst delicious melancholy. We had had a fight, but it is going to be all right.

The fifth of October


Storms outside and in

There’s a delicious storm outside and since the blog has not yet had a post dedicated to this phenomena, what better time for it.

I’m not entirely sure why I love stormy days as much as I do. It’s just one of those things that you love without knowing why. Like cats, books or strawberry ice cream.

Although I like sunny and warm days, they don’t quite touch my soul. They are lovely and warming, but seem to lack the X factor. Maybe it is because the essence of a pretty summer day is not compatible with the core of my nature.  I’ve seen too much of the darker side and have a contemplative, melancholy turn of mind, even if I do indulge in careless, childish abandon every once in a while, and am a rather optimistic sort.

Or maybe it is just my love of wild things. Uncontrollable, powerful, and yet not absolutely life-threatening (we don’t get hurricanes here anyhow, so I don’t actually know, but I assume I’d be very scared). Things that toss you about and play on your emotions, but don’t absolutely destroy or control you. Maybe it is a kind of partnership, really. The storms within being released and running with the storms outside. But like classical music, wordless, just pure feeling and chance of communion.

One of my favourite childhood memories is being at sea with a storm. How the boat tossed and the winds blew. People were falling over, but I, with the childlike lacking sense of danger, was absolutely gloriously happy. I also loved “swimming” on a stormy day, jumping into the waves and being thrown back towards the shore with them. It is little wonder then that water sports figure in my list of dreams.

And lastly, imagine the joy of returning home after being outside with a storm. Or the choice or chance not to venture out at all and relish the safety and warmth of the indoors. Today, I’m opting to stay at home – to write, sip tea, read and contemplate my future. Storms make being indoors seem a little magical, don’t they? I definitely love both being with them first-hand and observing them from indoors.



Dreamscape No. 1



If winter was not so long, I would enjoy it. But since it is, I’ll dream of spring and summer instead.


My house of dreams

There is always spring or summer when I dream of my future house. Like there is almost always a green season in Midsomer Murders.

My house is neither big nor small. It is made in the style of 1920s-30s wooden villas. Its most important outward feature is a veranda. My house must have a veranda.

Enter the veranda and you enter paradise. There are many large plants scattered about and a swing in the middle of the room. Naturally, the swing is not just any plastic swing. In one corner is a piano. At nights, it becomes lit up with candles, like the rest of the veranda. And the moonbeams peak in and mingle with candlelight. The veranda has windows on all three sides, and somewhere is a door with access to the garden. Sometimes I like to sit on the staircase and breathe in the night air.

There are cushions and some makeshift bed or sofa for guests and for me. The arrangement is rather chaotic and free. I imagine myself lounging in the corner sofa, candles are all lit and someone plays the piano. Later we talk. And crickets make a racket outside because it is a warm July night.

Or I daydream on my veranda during the day. Dangling my legs on the swing and wishing impossible things. There’s a small bookshelf in one corner and on rainy days I may pop in for a reading, with a cup of green tea.

The rest of my house. What more can be said. Veranda is the highest achievement of my lyrical imagination. But I will describe what else is there too. Maybe I want to compare one of those days.

I like little nooks and nests and unusual placement of furniture.  I’m frightfully lazy regrettably often, so I want my daybed to be built inside a wall like a closet or by the window, with drawers at one end. Then, if I need a pencil all of a sudden, I wouldn’t have to get up to get it. Oh yeah. Shame on the laziness.

And yes, I must have a daybed. This is where I make my nest and retreat when the world and people are a bit much. Veranda is a more social place. In the veranda, everyone is welcome to dream with me. In my nest, I want to be alone.

I’d like the carpet to be grass green. When I was around five, I  saw my aunt having a grass green carpet and I’ve always wanted one in the same shade.

Upstairs there are a few unusual design elements I can’t currently imagine, but which will come to me while renovating. The rest is rather traditional old-fashioned style of some sort. I’m not choosy, as long is it isn’t minimalist.

Sometimes I think it’d be fun to have a slide indoors, coming down the stairs. But maybe it’d take up too much space. And a secret passage into the cellar in case burglars or other bad people invade. Or simply a secret room behind the bookshelf.

Outdoors there is a garden. It’s a little bit wild and I like to keep it that way. The grass is allowed to grow slightly longer than on football pitches. And sometimes flowers and weeds have a bit of an open warfare as well. I interfere when it starts offending my taste.

In one corner is a little private garden nook completely enclosed and wrapped around with ivy or other overgrowing plants. This is where I go when I don’t want neighbours to see what I do in the garden. Which is most of the time. But alas, one cannot enclose the entire garden in ivy. It would attract suspicion.

In that garden nook are some seats and a sofa for outdoor lounging. Writing. Working. Eating cherries and chatting with kindred spirits.

The inhabitants of my garden also include lilacs, roses, lilies of the valley, peonies, jasmines, tulips, narcissi, and since it is a fantasy, I’ll throw in ylang ylangs for the delightful sweetness.

And with that list of intoxicatingly sweet flowers, this particular dream turns into a scent and floats away.