Monday, October 15, 2007
I am in a room full of middleaged women wearing cheap Elizabeth 1 style dresses, over primped hair spun like Elizabeth 2. Some of these women are men in drag. The prettiest woman has deep red lips filling half of her face. Amongst these creatures I find a boy of about 12, maybe older. He has been keeping a diary and occasionally records his dreams. I tell him to use his dreams to find out what he needs to do. "You can continue working on your dreams when you are awake," I tell him, "It's called active imagination." I brush two long strands of hair from his otherwise short hair and recognise that he is of course me.