Before we dive into the final episode of Season 1 of the well-made and quite fascinating program Peaky Blinders, I’ve elected to step away from my consumption of media and instead, do my quiet best, to produce some. Shit, though it may be.
See, a few hours in another world and I am overtaken. Struck by the desire to think more constructively, as I am in a story, after all. I’m not a living person, but mere invention and apt, in my way, to act rather than react. As a storybook girl, plot arrives more precipitously than it otherwise might on more restrictive planes of being.
In such a state, I am required to think of the somewhat petrifying new path I have flung myself. However, items and personages and actions will fall into place to progress me. I cannot stand still. I cannot linger. I cannot drift in Purgatory. I must, and ultimately shall, reach my end.
Ah, these fever dreams. They do not hold, but while they last…
I dreamed last night that after being unable to find my room in a labyrinthine house that contained all members of my family on my father’s side, both living and dead. I dreamed my mother had gypsy powers and knew a family friend’s secret…that she was pregnant and she patted and squeezed her belly with the knowing as though she were in a dramatic silent film. All were dressed in yellow, my dream language for the color of joy. I felt guilty, though. I understand it all perfectly, so it’s not fertile ground for fiction.
I think I have gathered around my patchwork shawl and I have lit the candles in my own gypsy caravan because I seek to know futures I can hardly imagine. I feel as though all of the steps I tread now are entirely tossed in front of me, as random and haphazard as lilypads drifting in and away from another at a breeze’s whim. I have a new job in an old place and how shall that be? I have an old job that is ever in new places and how shall that be? I have these impulses to write and I am following them and if I complete this tale, what shall that feel like?
I want forevision, foreknowledge, the security of the fore. I have been comforted in many moments by a forecast, a glimpse at fate’s long-term planner. But the things she writes there are the same as we might write…we hope it is fun, we hope it is fruitful, we hope it was right. But she scratches it out, re-orders, rejects, just as we would. She gets it right so often that we forget she sometimes changes her mind. Fate has her own ideas about narrative, or so it appears. So we only have that comfort of that moment and however long the belief lasts after that.
I’ve breaded and baked some chicken. There will be salad and a clementine and cold water. Steady and stable as I might be, it’s time to lean back and prognosticate once more.