Following yesterday's slight-almost-partial
breakdown, I was pleasantly surprised by the affability that today seemed to treat me with. In many ways, I wish I had more than four hours of English per week. It seems to be the class which generally leaves me feeling the most as if I've actually learnt something. I can't help thinking that if I had known all of the teachers in advance, I would have opted to take Dorothea Finan for all of them; but of course it's far too late now.
Began to re-read How Many Miles to Babylon, today being the first day of its prescription for the aforesaid enseignant's class.
Strange; I woke up this morning calmed from the turmoil of the night before. A dream calmed me, of water and warmth and empathy and impossibility. And I awoke to read of Rachel's dream, on a different dimension to mine. Something about a chair, something about love. I would have expected to feel perturbed, at the inverted synchronicity. But it seems I am a poor judge of myself.
And another day ekes by. An almost-week, now. Time passes ponderously. Colm had it right,
'Of course time's passing slowly. Christ, nothing ever comes if you're waiting for it.'