I dreamed I was sitting with the Writers’ Society exec, the old group of which I am the last one still involved in the Society, at a weirdly open-plan sort of Clubs Day.
Several tables to our right, another, younger society was resolving a dispute primarily by ganging up on the disagreeing member and making her cry. I started ranting about this, causing a few heads to turn when my “DOING IT WRONG” echoed across the room. Eventually the group dispersed, their ringleader locking eyes with me as she walked past us, and I went over to the circle of chairs they left, where the girl was silently crying. She had a long blonde ponytail.
“Boy, have I been there,” I said to her, choking up with sympathy tears, and then had to get up to fetch tissues. We shared a laugh-cry moment, and then for some reason I decided to share a Greek myth with her.
“I mean, Heliotrope,” I said, “was having the worst day ever
. Not only did she find out her husband was fucking a rabbit, but she literally turned into a painting.”
(At this point my dream treated me to a graphic vision of Heliotrope’s skin grafting onto the painting’s canvas as it absorbed her.)
“But let me tell you something,” I continued. “Heliotrope won.”
But before I could explain how Heliotrope won, my mum came in and woke me up (for the LAST TIME, which makes it fitting that it was absolutely classic – she told me last night when she expected me to be awake, I set my alarm for that time, and then she came in 40 mins earlier than my alarm to “fix” something about my room that wasn’t bothering me and opened the curtains so I couldn’t get back to sleep.)
Here’s the problem: there’s no such myth. The word heliotrope comes from a Greek story about a nymph
who was in unrequited love with the sun-god Helios, and thereby turned into a flower whose face always turns toward the sun. This contains the right elements from my dream, of the lover forsaking you for someone else and of turning into something nonsentient, but a) there’s no rabbits or paintings and b) she doesn’t Win. Unless you call having a 19th century German guy name a scientific instrument after you winning.
So help me out, internet – tell me the rest of the story. If your husband was fucking a rabbit and the Gods turned you into a painting, how would you