Out of the troubled waters

The night before last, I dreamed about the mansion and estates of a family whose oldest ancestor was preserved in poisonous chemicals a vault at the heart of the house: but every now and then he was lifted out, drained, and shaved of the mold that had gathered on his dead skin, and at these moments he could be asked questions and he would answer. Last night I dreamed a seedy restaurant from the perspective of an amphibious woman nicknamed Red Sal, on a planet where gills was slang for girl-parts and hellbender for rough trade. (I have no idea. The last thing I read before bed was a Judge Dee mystery.) I don't know if I can fuse them, but at least one of these should be a story.

Almost all of today was spent with my brother and his girlfriend at the Mystic Aquarium (or in transit, there and back), which reminded me that I have not been to the New England Aquarium in literally years. I used to visit almost religiously. One of the highlights of my childhood was the feeding of the electric eel, and watching the little gauge swing over into the red as it discharged at high voltage. There were a pair of morays at the Mystic, but we did not get to see their pharyngeal jaws in action. Alas. The anemones were very beautiful, however.

I am not sleeping. This needs to change.