Sharks and Letters

had a shark dream last night. I say that as though it is normal... Oh yes, an everyday occurence. Everyone dreams of sharks, don't they?

This shark was sitting at the kitchen table. I could see its sharky teeth. I wasn't too threatened but I was uneasy. It wanted to talk to me, but I was ignoring it, drinking tea and even in a dream wondering how a shark could live out of water...

The dream jumped to The Kennel: I was in bed hugging the shark, holding on to its grey sharkskin, making room for its dorsal fin... The flat filled with water - which I could breathe, oddly enough - and the shark swam away. I was relieved but still felt a sense of something being missing.

A simple explanation would be that I am both ignoring and holding on to fears and worries -probably about domestic life and my current situation and sex/intimacy: let's face it they are fairly current and easily explicable concerns- and should let them go.

- Of course, it could just be that I am secretly a big fan of Damien Hirst...

Oh yes. And I am considered writing a letter to my father. We haven't spoken for five years, maybe. It's complicated and not something I choose to blog about right now. Maybe some other time. It isn't pretty, of course - being consistently angry for four or five years would lend itself to the interpretation that maybe it wouldn't be - however I tend to send a card on his birthday and at Christmas time. Habit? Guilt? Some residual love? All of the above, probably. It was his birthday Monday, and I didn't get round to it this year. So much going on, so much more to think about. I should still let him know I am alive, I suppose and what is going on in my life. I don't owe him an explanation: he owes me a great deal, perhaps. I'm still not sure. I'm not even sure where to start... but a letter might not be a bad place.