The dreamcatcher

In between nightmares in which I’ve been conjuring up dead people in my sleep, I’ve been having some very vivid and bizarre dreams these past few weeks. It would appear many of you are too, if this article in the Guardian is anything to go by.

It’s an absolutely natural phenomenon, I would have thought, in a time of international stress, for our subconscious to reflect the massive impact coronavirus is having.

And it seems to me that while a lot of us are keeping diaries in the time of coronavirus it would be a really interesting exercise to see what our sleeping minds are doing.

As if playing a song into the village square every day at one o’clock during lockdown through a loudspeaker in the window isn’t enough, I’d also like to take on the role of dreamcatcher.

I’m looking to curate your nocturnal flights of fancy from my Shed of Dreams. I’ll be creating a new Dreamcatcher page on this website to keep your dreams in one place, if not all under control. In the meantime, though, please just keep me posted.

I’m not interested in your names but I am interested in your dreams. Maybe reading about other people’s nocturnal novels will trigger equally amazing flights of fancy. Anything is better than the zombie apocalypse nightmares so many of us are enduring.

I’m now going to tell you one of my dreams in the hope that you’ll tell me yours.

I dreamed F Scott Fitzgerald, who wrote The Great Gatsby, invited me into his painting studio which was somewhere in the south of France. I gazed around it in wonder, as the dream me did not realise my favourite author was also an accomplished artist [he wasn’t]. Just inside the door, there was a pile of art books. I flicked through them and discovered that many pages had been bookmarked where Fitzgerald’s photo appeared next to a short bio piece. I looked more closely and realised these were profiles for a number of different artists and they all looked like Fitzgerald. The dream me then went around the room, accompanied by him, to view his canvases, which featured a lot of surreal work, as if they had been created by the love child of Dali and Picasso. They were mostly huge great collages of naked women with roly-poly Beryl Cook thighs.  At that point, I got my coat, made my excuses and left. And then I woke up.

F Scott Fitzgerald. Look at that face.

There, so now you’ve heard mine. It’s not that exciting, but I enjoyed it. I’d love to hear yours. I won’t reveal your name, I promise.

Be sure to keep a notebook and pen by your bedside so you can note down your dream as soon as you wake. Where do you think the idea for Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde came from?

At best, by recording your dream you could be looking at the basis of a novel or television series and, at worst, you could send it to me and we can all have a good laugh.

You can do so by messaging my Maddie Grigg page on Facebook or emailing me.

That’s about it.

Love Maddie x

By Maddie Grigg

Maddie Grigg is the pen name of former local newspaper editor Margery Hookings. Expect reflections on rural life, community, landscape, underdogs, heritage and folklore. And fun.

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