I know it made your head spin, what we did with money
Thanks to the Canadian wildfires, our sunset light is Pompeiian red, by which I mean mostly the cinnabar and heat-treated smolder of the pigment, but also the implication of volcano.
Because my day was scrambled by a canceled appointment, after I had made a lot of phone calls![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch took me for soft-serve ice cream in the late afternoon, and once home I walked out to photograph some poppies I had seen from the car.
In the ambient mid-eighties of the suddenly summer air, the soft-serve almost instantaneously liquefied. The hard-shell dip slid off. The ice cream itself sort of calved onto my hands. Rob said I looked like a very intent cat as I pursued it.
The peonies were on the way to the poppies and deserved recognition of their own.
The poppies had a phenomenal contrast going on.
The breeze-shiver made them look current-blurred, soft as anemones.
I can't help feeling that last night's primary dream emerged from a fender-bender in the art-horror 1970's because once the photographer who had done his aggressive and insistently off-base best to involve me in a blackmail scandal had killed himself, all of a sudden the hotel where I had been attending a convention with my husbands had a supernatural problem. Waking in the twenty-first century, I appreciate it could be solved eventually with post-mortem mediation rather than exorcistic violence, but it feels like yet another subgenre intruding that the psychopomp for the job was a WWI German POW.
Because my day was scrambled by a canceled appointment, after I had made a lot of phone calls
spatch took me for soft-serve ice cream in the late afternoon, and once home I walked out to photograph some poppies I had seen from the car.
In the ambient mid-eighties of the suddenly summer air, the soft-serve almost instantaneously liquefied. The hard-shell dip slid off. The ice cream itself sort of calved onto my hands. Rob said I looked like a very intent cat as I pursued it.
The peonies were on the way to the poppies and deserved recognition of their own.
The poppies had a phenomenal contrast going on.
The breeze-shiver made them look current-blurred, soft as anemones.
I can't help feeling that last night's primary dream emerged from a fender-bender in the art-horror 1970's because once the photographer who had done his aggressive and insistently off-base best to involve me in a blackmail scandal had killed himself, all of a sudden the hotel where I had been attending a convention with my husbands had a supernatural problem. Waking in the twenty-first century, I appreciate it could be solved eventually with post-mortem mediation rather than exorcistic violence, but it feels like yet another subgenre intruding that the psychopomp for the job was a WWI German POW.