Last night's dream: I visit some ruins with a man I was supposed to work with on a building site or something.
He was probably the surveyor from the land registry with whom I had worked for a month as a young man to earn some money. I've forgotten his name, and to tell the truth, his face too. We spent our days in the car, going from building site to building site, in all the suburban areas under construction that were gradually encircling my town. We spoke very little, we just took measurements. We didn't believe anyone. It was a peaceful job, quite physical but restful for the mind.
In this dream, then, we arrive at the place where we have to work and I point out some old and abandoned houses, telling him that it drives me crazy to see these houses, once inhabited by the first citizens of this place (which place? I don't remember), now in this state. As you go on, there are only ruins, more and more gigantic – partly broken domes, remains of multi-storey walls, etc. Or, on the other hand, we see below us, in the incredibly deep foundations of future buildings, the underground floors of ancient buildings that have now been uncovered - remains of swimming pools, assemblies and arenas, terraced gardens. It's stunning and dizzying.
There's not much difference, in the mind's eye, I suppose, between a construction site and a garden of ruins – apart from some scaffolding.
