November 11th, 2021

I Can Take A Hint

Who was that girl in my dream last night? It was a garden party. And there were millionaires in the mix. How many do you think? Look, there's Mark Rylance; he's the girl's father, apparently- and certainly she has his eyes- friendly, crinkly, kindly. Is he a millionaire? Must be. You don't make movies for Spielberg and get off scot free. She has a thing about Harry Potter but is still child enough not to have read the bigger later tomes. She has one in in her hands. It's my copy of...ah, now what's the title exactly?

Only after I wake do I realise who she is. I've dreamed of her before. Then as now there was something "Empire" about her self-presentation. The name's not Rylance but it does begin with an "R". It's Rostov. The very big book was another clue.

She's Natasha, my very first love...

I must re-read War and Peace.

Why?

Why so solemn around the war dead?

I'm sure most of them liked a laugh when they were alive. I'll bet most of them said, "Fuck". I'll bet most of them said it a lot. I'll bet most of them hated being soldiers. I'll bet most of them liked singing "Mam'selle from Armentieres" better than they liked singing hymns.

Why transubstantiate them from cheeky chappies and working stiffs and aspiring poets and good husbands and bad husbands and all the other things they were into these gloomy ancestral ghosts?

I know the answer. And it's not a whole lot to do with them.

It's to do with a combination of grief (fair enough) and survivor's guilt (which doesn't do anyone any good)- and the desire to keep on polishing the War Machine.