What I remember from my dream last night
We were in a field, maybe a school playground. Just a few of us. There were big buildings nearby.
Something happened, we all noticed. I don’t know what it was.
We all looked to the sky. A cloud of bats flew by, alarmed.
Things were shifting, we all felt it.
Snow-covered mountains rose up in the distance: the Himalayas.
There was a big shock.
Then we were in an underground complex.
We were the survivors, we all knew it.
We had to squeeze through a narrow tube, one by one, to get to the place we were going. The tube was hard to negotiate: it went down, then up, and it was slippery.
I understood that people who were outside during what happened were not alive. We had survived because we were underground. Outside, there were black sheets draped over lumpy piles.
Some people kept sliding down the up. To get out through the small round hole at the other end you had to push one arm through first, pull yourself through, then bring the other arm up behind you.
When we made it through to the other side there was a hall with collapsible tables and people milling around.
There were lots of shoes paired up under the tables, but I couldn’t find mine.
There were lots that looked like mine, but they weren’t quite right.
Eventually I found mine, but one was missing.
— — — —
Thoughts on the drive to town this morning
I am behind a truck with a chipper on the back called ‘Invincible’.
There’s no overtaking here. It goes slow.
Eventually the truck turns right off the highway.
I am behind a driver with an L plate.
We go past the petrol station. Prices have dropped again, down from about $1.28/L to $1.12/L. I wonder why.
There’s no overtaking here. It goes slow.
I am grateful for the road which winds instead of going straight.
I am grateful for the road that goes up and down instead of running flat.
I am grateful for the single lane road, even though there’s no overtaking, because it slows things down a little, and that feels like a good thing. The sun is shining.
It’s been a while since I swam laps, I realise. Maybe it would be nice to do that this week.
When I get home, chicken soup and leg warmers as the wind lashes the trees outside.
There’s a lot to be grateful for.
— — — —
Turmeric chocolate chai
One hundred and thirty seven days ago I made turmeric chocolate chai.
I put it on the stove, forgot about it, and it overflowed all over the stovetop, which I later wrote about.
Today I made turmeric chocolate chai.
I had just woken up from a post-midday nap under a very soft blanket: the best kind of nap. I was dazed and sleepy, thinking about Antarctica.
I bent down to lift the little non-stick pot from the corner cupboard — the one whose hinged door fell off ninety-one days ago — and placed it on the stovetop.
Taking a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer I spooned in one of cocoa, one of turmeric. Four cloves and three little cardamom pods, which I teased open with a fingernail before scattering them in. Forgoing the cinnamon stick, I added instead a dash of the powder. (It wasn’t until much later that I realised I’d forgotten the ginger and chilli). I poured some warm water over the dry spices, about halfway, stirring a little as I went. Topped it up with milk.
While the stovetop warmed I pottered around, transferring the contents of plastic bags into jars: turmeric and cumin powder, something I’ve been meaning to do for months.
I moved the pile of dishes around, stacking bowls and grouping cutlery together so it took up slightly less space.
I chose a mug and sat it on the bench, placing the circular sieve on top.
At length, the mix began to hiss, just a little. I took it off the element and poured the smooth, warm-brown elixir into the mug.
— — — —
I’m not suggesting this is indicative of any deeper change or anything. I’m not trying to say that, as the pandemic widens and deepens and transmutes, I’m becoming more attentive, more present. I’m not.
In fact, I did a pretty good re-enactment of the turmeric chocolate chai volcano just a few days ago.
But it was nice today, in the somnolent warmth of the house, with the distant whisper of the wind, to idly potter and wait, with patience for once, for the pot to boil.