“Good sex is something fiction just can’t do — like dreams” (Martin Amis, “Off the Page” with Carole Burns. www. washingtonpost.com, November 7, 2002). I disagree. Dreams are primary resources for writers as they are for our characters. There is an entire literature of dreams. See Charles Dodgson’s Alice. See Virginia Woolf’s Mr. Ramsay: ‘Mr. Ramsay, stumbling along a passage one dark morning, stretched his arms out . . . (To The Lighthouse, 1925)

Edith had had a strange dream involving sea kelp. In her dreams she was quite sure she knew what sea kelp was; she was an expert. She’d been given a lesson by another expert and now she was ready to give her lecture, her presentation. She could see herself — she was animated and waving her arms around — an octopus extending herself outwards. Now she was immersing herself in a basin of salty water. Kelp was growing up through her hair. Green and brown fronds wrapping themselves around her head. Edith felt them tickling her through her sleep and she jumped to avoid their reach. But it was too late; kelp was wrapping itself around her necks, pressing between her teeth. Eat me, eat me! She stirred and turned over; opened her eyes a crack.

Morning sun was slipping through her curtains. She pressed her eyes together more tightly and turned from the light. Behind her eyes green was turning into a crisp brown; she put out her hands and felt the crunch of leaves. Reassured, and fell back down into the dark-eyed wave of sleep. It was Friday, she had nothing much to stir for, and kelp, so her morning dream was telling her, was good for hair.

So, Edith kept dreaming, and in her dream, she could see hands touching her head; there on her scalp, wiry and thin on top. Edith grimaced. If she could find some bottles of kelp it might help. Hands moved in front of her – were they hers? – they were groping, but towards what, where? A shaft of light moved over her face; Edith turned over and closed her eyes again. She wanted more of her dream.

The scene was shifting; now she could see brown water, but it had been green before, hadn’t it? Water was always green or blue or grey -- the sea, this was the sea -- water turning from green to brown before her very eyes; she could see some yellow, but the yellow was disappearing -- lilies, she thought, no, seaweed, kelp. We are looking for kelp, this is kelp, Edith, kelp! Someone else was speaking, Mr Jarvis. Edith’s mouth opened, but she could not speak, so she looked down at the water -- turning brown from green -- green fronds clinging to her bare legs. She could not free herself and in front were sharp rocks and her bare toes wriggling. Pale pink, bleached, she must have been swimming; her toes were still damp, and she could see herself: a small figure climbing rocks looking for a place to wash. A rock pool to wash off the touch, the taste -- wet and salty --- she plucked at a ribbon and passed it across her tongue. Wet and salty, bladderwrack. She popped it between her fingers but there was no sound. The voice began speaking.

‘Kelp is good for nerves, the iodine.’

What? She called out, she could not see him, everything was dark. The rocks, the sea, the sky above. She was inside a tunnel – no -- she was under the sea, along the seabed, she was crawling. She took a deep breath and her ears popped.

‘Beware the sea urchins, they will consume her first.’

She could see her toes passing over a rock -- it was wet and slippery --- where to put her feet safely? She wanted to feel safe, but the rocks felt slippery.

‘Iodine is good for nerves. Beware the sea urchins. They will cut down her forests.’ Who was speaking? The weeds? She looked at her toes again. Everything was darker, the water dark brown, turning green, the weeds short and stubby – moss, no – it was seaweed. Seaweed stuck to the pavement; she must pull it off. Edith bent down to touch – what? She saw a line of trees lying beneath her, a forest, a forest of seaweed underneath the sea.  She had no idea forests grew there, and she wondered again who was speaking. Her mouth wasn’t moving but there was this voice inside her head. Mr. Jarvis. Had she swallowed him? Had he swallowed her? Sea floors were savage places. You say I should try seaweed then? It was Edith, she was speaking, her mouth was moving, now she was stirring. She turned and wriggled her toes.

 A beam of light fell on her face. She scrunched her eyes tighter and turned to the wall and began to think of the day. Not much except perhaps a run through of the tomorrow’s hymns. Psalm 23. Somebody’s child was getting christened tomorrow; the service would be longer, and the tea and cake would drag on. There’d be washing up to do and chairs to put away and grey cloths to wipe around and around the Formica tabletops. Edith saw her hands moving but they did not feel like her hands – they were not attached --- and she was wearing rubber gloves. But that was tomorrow, there was still today, and it was sunny.

Her brain began running its calculations; how to get through the day. Her heart began beating like a wooden spoon in the middle of her chest. She lifted her hand and pressed above her rib. And there it was, the whole of the sea floor inside her reverberating, looking for a home, for somewhere to settle. Saltwater pressing up against the sides of her; a tight vessel about to split open – Edith’s desire, Edith’s hopes and dreams. (From POND LIFE: A Story of Biographical Extinction) — a work in progress).