It looks a lot like engine oil and tastes like being poor and small

Most of my anxiety dreams are about school or performance. I was not expecting to dream last night that I was suddenly responsible for the arraignment of a serial killer: I was handed a folder of papers and pointed in the direction of the courtroom, which looked a lot more like a conference room. Unusually for this kind of dream, I explained promptly to the judge that I was here as a favor for an overworked lawyer (fictional, a vague acquaintance) and my knowledge of law was nonexistent to out of date by two thousand years; I'd been told it was just a formality, but if my participation was going to invalidate the case against the man, I wanted to bow out now. After which things devolved into a film noir cross with Hannibal, because I was supposed to have tried to fake my way through the prosecution and left things wide open for the defense, and then I spent much of the dream trying not to be killed. I didn't think much of it until I woke, but there were unicorns in this world; they had nothing to do with sexuality and a lot to do with not wanting to attract their attention, because they were arbiters of perfect justice and that's terrifying. Roaming, half-mythical, not part of the judicial system. In a story, I should have been able to summon one and confront the killer with it, but the only appearance I remember is a quick glimpse from the roof of a nearby warehouse: it was standing like a heraldic statue, possibly observing, possibly absorbed in some other thought; it was not horselike and not human and I couldn't guess what it was thinking. I remember its horn was a kind of ropy amber color. I woke up before the endgame. Things were getting bloody.

The marathon on Saturday was absolutely lovely and I should write about the movies, especially Tremors (1990), which I'd known nothing about and hadn't realized would be wonderful. Sunday sucked jet stream. We watched the latest episode of The Great British Bake Off, but that was after midnight and doesn't really count. I'm not sure about today, but tomorrow is the PMRP's Fall Fundraiser, when a portion of the proceeds from all purchases at Eat at Jumbo's will go toward funding Night of the Living Dead this month at Responsible Grace and The Big Broadcast of 1962: A Byfar Christmas Carol at the Regent in December. I have some stake in the latter, therefore plan to eat a calzone for radio. First I need to figure out what, beyond work, I am doing with this afternoon.

In the rain, in the evening, in the garden, I will come

Photobomb post. I was in Lexington this afternoon: I took pictures of Abbie's cairn for derspatchel and then I took pictures of other things in the garden. I gave them titles when I e-mailed them to myself from my mother's computer.

( Photo size dictated by LJ being difficult, necessitating halfway measures with Picasa. )

Tomato [edit] vines and nasturtium flowers are beautiful. I think it is appropriate that they should grow about the grave of a cat who always knew that whatever food was nearest was his.

ša mītū lilūnimma qutrīn lissinū

My flash fiction "Last Drink Bird Head" is now included with five other stories of the same name as a supplementary web extra at Wonderbook Now, the companion site to Jeff VanderMeer and Jeremy Zerfoss' monumental Wonderbook: The Illustrated Guide to Creating Imaginative Fiction. Which is gigundous and amazing and includes things like the Prologue Fish. The website is pretty epic, too. Editor roundtable. Mexican wrestler monomyth. Different styles of dragons. Check it out!