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triskellianIs made up of the physical places I inhabit: my house, my office, the houses of my family and friends, favourite shops, nearby pubs, dream houses, memories of places friends once lived, subtly altered versions of familiar places, a park frozen in time eleven years ago, fictional worlds, fantastic castles, houses that never existed.
Then there are the people who populate my world: friends, family, colleagues, friends and lovers stolen from books, people who flit by at the edges of my life, film characters, cartoon people, fairies and witches.
Events: from reality, from memory, from dreams, from fiction. First-hand, second-hand, third-hand, hearsay.
Relationships: as played out in the world, as played out in my head, as dreamt, as imagined, as remembered. Webs of connections, interlocking and overlapping and fighting for prominence.
Objects: half-remembered presents from my childhood; solid, everyday objects (this water glass; that pencil). Objects invested with power of memory or love; mundane things, beautiful things. Unwanted gifts, broken things, much-loved things. Books, each of which contains another world, with its own places and people and things.
The real and the imagined and the dreamt and the remembered all bleed into each other at the edges. The fuzzy shapes of memory or dream are overlaid onto the clear, sharp lines of reality. I can distinguish between them. I know not to refer to something from a dream as 'reality', to talk about the pictures in my head as if I see them through the lens of the commonly understood 'real world', but these things are all part of my real world.
Then there are the people who populate my world: friends, family, colleagues, friends and lovers stolen from books, people who flit by at the edges of my life, film characters, cartoon people, fairies and witches.
Events: from reality, from memory, from dreams, from fiction. First-hand, second-hand, third-hand, hearsay.
Relationships: as played out in the world, as played out in my head, as dreamt, as imagined, as remembered. Webs of connections, interlocking and overlapping and fighting for prominence.
Objects: half-remembered presents from my childhood; solid, everyday objects (this water glass; that pencil). Objects invested with power of memory or love; mundane things, beautiful things. Unwanted gifts, broken things, much-loved things. Books, each of which contains another world, with its own places and people and things.
The real and the imagined and the dreamt and the remembered all bleed into each other at the edges. The fuzzy shapes of memory or dream are overlaid onto the clear, sharp lines of reality. I can distinguish between them. I know not to refer to something from a dream as 'reality', to talk about the pictures in my head as if I see them through the lens of the commonly understood 'real world', but these things are all part of my real world.
