It is the middle of February and the long range weather forecast suggests that the month may end with a warmer Southerly wind. This means that we have probably survived another winter. How many more we have left, is moot.
I have organised my dreams in this blog and am happy that there is not much more to be done with them. The web stats suggest that this is my least read blog ever. I have made no effort to promote it or optimise SEO because dreams are not about force and anyone floating by like a cloud, is welcome.
There are around 200,000 words here with ~ 250 posts and a total of 600 registered views {non France}.
It is possible that people read content without the stats monitoring it. There is no way to quantify this. Based on evidence very few are interested. I am not surprised; people have way more important things.
The plan for the site renews in May and I have a mind to do some spring cleaning, to wipe the slate perhaps. The reads for my Substack are also very low. Maybe a fresh start?
I am perhaps due a big operation sometime in 2025, perhaps not.
I have been getting some big dreams of late which bear no commonality with my day to day life. The wife even had one thematically linked too.
If we were to sell the house to down size to a nanna-flat or bungalow, spring summer looks to be the time to start. We have had all the diagnostics done.
I am far from the normal mundane currents of life, a little eddy in a backwater. It is very unlikely that this will change. Although the universe has curve balls, I am not even at the batting home plate, should it seek to pitch. Any incoming is probably going to be health related.
In a sense these dreams are an insubstantial pageant which bears little tangibility to the life quotidian. They prove nothing though hint at more. Maybe they are tendrils from a far off land, a far off place, a time that never was, ghost echoes in the web of life, an unmanifest potential not even nearing a threshold. Perhaps a faintly traced charcoal sketch of karmic comedy and tragedy writ filagree on rice paper.
Impermanence is not attained by many, they take so very much for granted.
Maybe that time is again at hand.
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You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismayed. Be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Sir, I am vexed.
Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled.
Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose.
A turn or two I’ll walk
To still my beating mind.
The Tempest – Act 4, scene 1 William Shakespeare
Dreamyoga 