Some may recall the singing of the sirens lured in the sailors who'd wreck and drown

1. Last night I fell asleep before four in the morning and I stayed that way until shortly after one in the afternoon. In between, for the first time in months, I had detailed, narrative dreams in two distinct phases. I was watching a television play and participating in it at the same time: the killing of a king in something like a Shakespearean history, filmed with all the grey skies and chapped faces and damp wool of modern adaptations. There might or might not have been a plot with a pretender. The speeches should have been in verse, but I can't remember if they were. I fell in love with the youngest of the killers, the one who got the death-blow in, a thin, cowled, gender-ambiguous person with straw-spiky hair and a round face with too many bones in it. They were quick-spoken, taking little nervous breaths halfway through phrases; they were gentle and political and I knew they would be betrayed. We never did more than hold one another, briefly and longingly. I had to watch them found out and torn apart, long after the point where the frame of the play had blurred into something that was really happening. Quartering sounds neat as mathematics, I remember thinking; bodies aren't stamps with dotted lines. After the coronation, I pushed through the gallery of spectators into the backstage that had not existed since the first moments of the dream and found them in modern dress, scarf pulled down around their neck like a cowl, packing a knapsack. They burrowed against me instantly. Later I learned that their name was Filipe and their gender identity was "boi" and we went out to dinner with a bunch of other actors and dancers they worked with (at a restaurant near Fresh Pond that hasn't existed since I was a child, though I didn't remember that until after I'd woken) and it wasn't that the events of the history play had never happened, or that we were living in some kind of metatheatrical region between dreams, but dying and going out to dinner were apparently not mutually exclusive. It was not an idyllic dream, which interests me from here. Not all their friends liked or approved of me; I hadn't introduced them yet to any of mine beyond rushthatspeaks and derspatchel. It must have been colder where we were or earlier in the year, because I remember trees breaking into flower above our heads, white and pink petals all over the sidewalk. I remember how they fit into my arms, a little shorter than I was and much skinnier. I missed them when I woke up. Those are unusual dreams for me these days.

2. I spent much of this evening with sairaali and M., watching Star Trek: Voyager (1995–2001). It turns out that the pilot and the second half of the two-parter with the Borg Queen are not a good introduction to Voyager, but being shown four favorite episodes (and one chosen to showcase a character I was interested in) by someone who really likes the series is great. Robert Picardo continues his streak of fantastic character acting, because the Doctor was my favorite character almost at once. Her figure-hugging jumpsuit is idiotic, but Jeri Ryan's Seven of Nine may be coming in second. I am interested to see a show running two very different narratives about how to be human—or not—simultaneously, without putting them in conflict with one another. Will gladly watch more episodes as recommended. Also, Kate Mulgrew has an amazing voice. The last person I heard who sounded like her was Katharine Hepburn.

(I stand by my original assessment of Star Trek: Enterprise (2001–2005), however: it was terrible.)

3. I should cook fruit more often. The braces and other health concerns have made eating most raw fruits difficult, but the baked-down plums and nectarines really worked.