You break the ice at parties, but I break down

My sleep schedule has deranged again. I fell asleep after six in the morning and had a series of vivid, complex dreams whose plots mostly did not survive the transition to waking. I dreamed of a contemporary version of Bagoas, wearing a necklace of ancient silver coins. One of them had his lover's profile stamped on it. Alexander was immortal, but there was something vampiric in it, like Tanith Lee's Scarabae. I dreamed of flooded catacombs or underground canals, receding into time. The building overhead was a movie theater, showing The Wizard of Oz (1939). There were boats tied up where the Somerville has the Museum of Bad Art. I dreamed of reading a novel or a series of novels written contemporaneously with Dorothy L. Sayers, frequently recommended to fans of Wimsey in the same vein as Margery Allingham's Campion, but I can remember nothing about the mysteries or the series detective, just a secondary character standing in a crowded room, looking around at the company with a tight, tensely blank expression on his face. He's just had something unforgivable said to his face; the reader doesn't yet know if it's true, which is a different question from whether it should have come out sneeringly at a party. Afterward one of the other guests referred to him as "poor Mr. Cornelius," the kind of pitying dismissal that made me feel for the character whether I was supposed to or not. I wish I could remember anything at all about the resolution of the book.

Last night with sairaali and M. was lovely. Saira had a recipe for sweet potato soup from Cook's Illustrated and my latest orthodontist's appointment has left me basically living on soup for the foreseeable future, so we made it with all the toppings—maple sour cream, mirin-sautéed mushrooms, cider-candied bacon, scallions instead of chives—and it was savory and filling and the special tip about soaking the sweet potato for twenty minutes in warm shallot-and-thyme broth did not in any way result in a thinner soup, but it was really delicious purée. Before dinner, I did a handstand with M.'s assistance and Saira's coaching, which marks the first time since elementary school. It was fun. The point at which my inner ear rotated upside down felt exactly like the horizon flip of a looping roller coaster. I would need much better upper body and core strength in order to manage it alone. After dinner, we watched the first two episodes of the third season of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries (2012–), which I enjoyed and am still sorting some of my reactions to, because stylistically it feels like a set of classically elaborate Golden Age mysteries taking place in a world with much more nuanced gender issues than Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh. I like the dynamic between Phryne and Jack, how even if he's not coping very well with her tendency to bang random dudes in the middle of investigations, it doesn't prevent him from working with her and he doesn't try to make her stop. Their unresolved sexual tension is visible from space. Does anyone here recommend the books? I'm aware of their existence, but have never read any.

Today I am not building a bonfire, because I don't live in the right countries for it. My mother traditionally celebrates Guy Fawkes by watching V for Vendetta (2005). Have a song about fire: Jill Tracy, "Make It Burn." I need to do some practical things with my afternoon.