I might as well put down my dream I had on Friday morning. It was a strange, vivid one, and was weird because we’d only been talking about dreams a couple of days earlier.
It was about a place in America, Fort something or other (the name began with a T and was long), which was on the coast. I remember dreaming I was walking up a cinder track behind a woman in a bikini; the sun was bright and straight in front of us. Also, to our left, was the town; the buildings were large white villa type houses, surrounded by thick green trees – there was a beach, with waves breaking on it. I was looking down on things and the whole scene was misty; as if there was a sea-fog or something. At school, it was so fresh in my memory that I even checked on an atlas to see if there was such a place.
Typical Sunday afternoon, Nanna talking about Kenneth and her memories. I still ache all over. Achieved absolutely nothing. I watched the BBC’s programme about the Easter rising in April 1916 which was sad. I found myself with a dilemma here; Im saying on the one hand that patriotism and nationalism is sick, yet on the other hand I feel sneaking regard for people such as Connolly and Mugabe. Where do I draw the line?
I finally began my debate at ten and finished it at 1.30.