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Nothing can happen to me anymore
My poem "Last Minute" has been accepted by Strange Horizons. This is the poem I wrote a few months ago in collaboration with my dreaming self: specifically, I dreamed I was in a nonexistent used book store, reading a volume of poetry in translation from a language whose reality is equally disputable. Awake, I very carefully wrote out a sort of critical apparatus of the text for future reference, since the lines I had brought out of the dream totaled just slightly more than half of the complete poem and the rest I had either to reconstruct from half-remembered images or rhythms or supply my conscious self—there were brackets and question marks and everything—and then I lost the entire record a few days later in a computer glitch and still feel awful about it. Influences detectable on waking included Thorold Dickinson's The Queen of Spades (1949) and Jean Cocteau's Orphée (1950) with an arguable side of Ice Cold in Alex (1958), but one way or another the rest is me. I have brought text out of dreams before, but never co-written with them. I am so very pleased the results will have this home. It has just been a horrible day and the acceptance was a sterling improvement.
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Thank you!
I really miss used book stores.
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Thank you!
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Thank you!
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*hugs*
I still wish I had the record of the form in which it emerged from the dream. It was two lines and a bracket of missing line, another line, three more brackets, another line, three more brackets, and then three lines, but some of the lines had questions about the words and some of the brackets had partial senses of what had filled them: I was still able to transcribe the latter directly on waking, but by the time the file was lost, the fragmentary stuff was all beyond recall.
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Thank you!
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Thank you!
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Nine
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Thank you.
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Thank you!
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Thank you!
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Thank you. I actually think it is pretty cool myself.
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Thank you!