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.
no subject
Peonies just beg you to shove your face into them and luxuriate. And those poppies! The centers look like they're going to open, and it'll be a portal to another dimension.
no subject
I like that idea, even if I suspect the other dimension is classically the underworld.