Re-reading our texts from the strawberry days
I must have slept ten hours. Hestia appears to be watching the rain with almost as much interest as the birds sheltering from it. May it and the recent snowmelt amend the drought. Tomorrow, of course, it is forecast to snow again.
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selkie was safely collected from the Penn Station-alike that South Station has done its best to inhume itself into since her last visit, provided with an appropriate quantity of local barbecue for an obligate carnivore, and even successfully checked in to her hotel despite the mishegos attending every stage of her conference even before it started. At no point in this process did we apparently remember to take any pictures of ourselves.
My dreams seem to be branching out in terms of media, since last night's featured a youngish Alec McCowen starring in the radio version of a Tey-like crime novel as the ambiguously poor relation of an upper-class family who is not actually Kind Hearts and Coronets-ing his way through them, but needs to figure out who is before he's so handily scapegoated for the accidents escalating to murder ever since his arrival; he is, naturally, keeping a secret from the family, the authorities, and even the inattentive reader, but it isn't that. I was very pleased to find that a recording had survived, because the original novel had just been reprinted by the British Library Crime Classics. There were images mixed up in it in the way of dreams, but it was definitely on the Internet Archive.
Outside my head, I have been recently listening to Wu Fei & Abigail Washburn (2020), Jake Blount and Mali Obomsawin's symbiont (2024), and Huw Marc Bennett's Heol Las (2026), which I found through its ghost-boxish "Cân Gwasael (Wassail Song)." I like that I do not have to dream their remixes of folk and futurism and time.
selkie was safely collected from the Penn Station-alike that South Station has done its best to inhume itself into since her last visit, provided with an appropriate quantity of local barbecue for an obligate carnivore, and even successfully checked in to her hotel despite the mishegos attending every stage of her conference even before it started. At no point in this process did we apparently remember to take any pictures of ourselves.My dreams seem to be branching out in terms of media, since last night's featured a youngish Alec McCowen starring in the radio version of a Tey-like crime novel as the ambiguously poor relation of an upper-class family who is not actually Kind Hearts and Coronets-ing his way through them, but needs to figure out who is before he's so handily scapegoated for the accidents escalating to murder ever since his arrival; he is, naturally, keeping a secret from the family, the authorities, and even the inattentive reader, but it isn't that. I was very pleased to find that a recording had survived, because the original novel had just been reprinted by the British Library Crime Classics. There were images mixed up in it in the way of dreams, but it was definitely on the Internet Archive.
Outside my head, I have been recently listening to Wu Fei & Abigail Washburn (2020), Jake Blount and Mali Obomsawin's symbiont (2024), and Huw Marc Bennett's Heol Las (2026), which I found through its ghost-boxish "Cân Gwasael (Wassail Song)." I like that I do not have to dream their remixes of folk and futurism and time.
no subject
no subject
Right? [rot13] Gur cebgntbavfg'f frperg vf gung ur vfa'g nal xvaq bs eryngvba bs gur snzvyl: ur'f abg rira na vzcbfgbe va gur genqvgvbany frafr bs vzcrefbangvat bar bs vgf erny zrzoref, nyvir be qrnq. Ur'f n pba negvfg jub qrpvqrq jura uvf yngrfg fpurzr oyrj onpx ba uvz onqyl rabhtu gb nggenpg gur nggragvba bs gur cbyvpr gung uvf enaqbz xabjyrqtr bs n jryy-urryrq snzvyl tnvarq qhevat gur jne ybbxrq yvxr whfg gur gvpxrg gb ynl ybj ba, rfcrpvnyyl fvapr ur vf va ab jnl nggrzcgvat gb fpnz gurz orlbaq cerfragvat uvzfrys nf gur fba bs n pbhcyr bs qvfgnag eryngvirf jub qvrq juvyr vagrearq nsgre gur snyy bs Fvatncber be Funatunv be Ubat Xbat jvgubhg va ernyvgl yrnivat nal puvyqera. Ur xarj gurz jryy rabhtu gb sheavfu nyy gur cebcre fuvoobyrguf naq gur jne unf whzoyrq gur erpbeqf fhssvpvragyl gung ur'f perqvoyr. Haqre abezny pvephzfgnaprf, ur jbhyq whfg cyrnfnagyl hfr gur snzvyl nf n oyvaq naq gura qrcneg, bfgrafvoyl ergheavat gb uvf ohfvarff vagrerfgf va gur Sne Rnfg naq cebonoyl zvkvat uvzfrys hc va gur oynpx znexrg be fbzrguvat. Ohg na haxabja cnegl unf gnxra uvf cerfrapr nf gurve bja cresrpg rkphfr sbe pevzr naq abj ur unf gb fbyir vg jvgubhg tvivat uvzfrys njnl nf rvgure n snxr eryngvba be, jbefr, uvf bja frys jvgu cbyvpr erpbeq nggnpurq juvpu jvyy ybbx whfg nf vapevzvangvat. I cannot believe that no real mystery novel of the 1950's ever used this plot. It seems like such a gimme.
[edit] I just realized I spoiler-ciphered the twist of a mystery that to reiterate has no known existence outside of my unconscious. I am apparently that convinced it exists somewhere and I just cryptomnesia'd it into my dreams. I wish it did: I can think of several close analogues, but no exact match. I don't want to write it, I just want to find out it was published about 1953 and a copy is in the Malden Public Library.