365 Days, Day 197

The mind which plunges into Surrealism, relives with burning excitement the best part of childhood (Andre Breton, Surrealist Manifesto, 1924)

Surreal dream imagery - eruptions of strangeness into a known world: discrepancies of scale, or time, or context (Chris Wayan)

“'Make a remark,' said the Red Queen; 'it's ridiculous to leave all the conversation to the pudding!” (Lewis Carroll)

Our world at the moment seems somewhat surreal. It is Christmas time, yet is cold and white outside. We are alone, in a little bubble far from our known comfort zone; far from our loved ones. It seems as if we are in a strange dream with sounds, sights, smells and feelings strange to us. It is almost as though we have stepped into a film set. Nothing seems real: the known and unknown fuse in a splendorous clash. And we float in this dream-sea.

Had a bizarre conversation with a man in a coffee shop today, rather unusual… I know: what he does (or what he purports to do), that he was married, has no children, is pursuing a relationship with a lady called Linda whom he met on the internet (who is sorting out her head before she wants to see him again), that he was a Mayan priest in a past life (with not-always-good tendencies), that his star sign is Aries, that he looks after his body by only eating according to his blood type and so forth… Surreal.

The snow is melting and is all slushy on the roads. So when we walk to our car down in the main road where we park it, we have to wade through black slush-puppy, all the time I keep thinking: do NOT fall in this! I have “snow” boots now, so am well-equipped for the slippery-ness.

Walking in snow is not quiet and peaceful as one would imagine: there is a loud crunchy, crackly sound underfoot. But the sounds of ‘normal’ things are blanketed. A walk in the snowy forest is somewhat eerie and dream-like, everything is white and pretty. A bird squawk punctuates the forest’s silence, as it flaps from a tree and dislodges a flurry of snow onto the white carpet.

In my dream, I float. Hovering above the cold soft snow. My barefeet not touching the blanketed ground. The snowflakes flutter gracefully around me, landing like tiny white envelopes on my arm. I open an envelope. Inside is a minuscule silver square. As I touch it between my finger and thumb, a voice starts to chant rhythmically… Surreal.

I am reminded of Heston Blumenthal’s Christmas Feast… this creative man is beyond belief. His obsession is mind-boggling and awe-inspiring. I would like to save up to be able to afford to eat at his restaurant, Fat Duck which is horrendously expensive but would be a gastronomic experience of a life-time. Surrealism in food.

I have not yet left ANY conversation to the pudding: so I will quietly step back and let the pudding take over…