Dreamed that I was in the Patea house, my grandma's house, staying there during a literary festival. With other writers there - Tony Green, John Scott. There was a young woman on the tv who had been featured that day at the festival - dynamic and very different and interesting. I'd already bought her book, it was on the table, and I was a bit proud of this because it somehow reversed my slackness and disengagement. I said 'oh I have her book here if anyone wants to have a read'. But the others said no - that they didn't like to read while they were writing their own work, for the purposes of focus. I was surprised again to find myself on the other side of this signal of 'goodness' and application, and to find it wasn't necessary, but still, I wanted to read the woman's book. I began dipping into a chapter, and it was incredibly rich and engaging -
it was in the first person, so it became the dream, where the writer and I were simultaneous. A recount of her memories of her nanny, who had four large, full breasts. She could remember being breastfed, this extraordinary unlimited experience of plenty. There was a question of whether the nanny was black, a figure of exploitation. There was a question of whether the writer could really remember this far back, but possibly (because of her class status and the period of her upbringing) she had been nursed by the nanny from infancy well into her childhood - 7, 8, 9 years of age. I buried down into the nanny's shirt and found a breast in all that fullness. I had not yet found a nipple to latch on to but the satisfaction was huge.
*
following the dream I was able to write yesterday and got quite a bit done, with a feeling of casualness, entitlement, laziness, freedom. This dream and the classroom dream have the same odd feeling to them, of reversing the rules and requirements of my creative work in a way that doesn’t feel credible but is really gratifying in the dream. And in this one (actually in both of them) my resistance is outsourced to some authority and legitimised, leaving me free to engage and be fed and satisfied but in ways that feel suspiciously privileged.
I wonder - why four breasts? why did the breast I suckled have no nipple? and what about the movement into the book?
it was in the first person, so it became the dream, where the writer and I were simultaneous. A recount of her memories of her nanny, who had four large, full breasts. She could remember being breastfed, this extraordinary unlimited experience of plenty. There was a question of whether the nanny was black, a figure of exploitation. There was a question of whether the writer could really remember this far back, but possibly (because of her class status and the period of her upbringing) she had been nursed by the nanny from infancy well into her childhood - 7, 8, 9 years of age. I buried down into the nanny's shirt and found a breast in all that fullness. I had not yet found a nipple to latch on to but the satisfaction was huge.
*
following the dream I was able to write yesterday and got quite a bit done, with a feeling of casualness, entitlement, laziness, freedom. This dream and the classroom dream have the same odd feeling to them, of reversing the rules and requirements of my creative work in a way that doesn’t feel credible but is really gratifying in the dream. And in this one (actually in both of them) my resistance is outsourced to some authority and legitimised, leaving me free to engage and be fed and satisfied but in ways that feel suspiciously privileged.
I wonder - why four breasts? why did the breast I suckled have no nipple? and what about the movement into the book?
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