Remember me when you're the one who's silver-screened

I can't remember anything about last night's dreams except that they were nested: I dreamed of standing in the kitchen explaining to my cousins that the television show I had been dreaming about did not actually have Nazis in it, but allegorically they were very clearly there. Maybe I had been thinking about John Steinbeck's The Moon Is Down (1942). I know it also exists as both a play and a movie, but I've never read or seen either, although I believe the latter is even more explicit about the Norwegian setting than the novel, which carefully mentions no nationalities while leaving no doubts in the reader's mind. I was introduced to it by a friend whose father grew up during the German occupation of Fredrikstad.

Assorted items off the internet—

1. I knew that Katharine Hepburn had originated her starring role in The Philadelphia Story onstage before reprising it for the 1940 film, but I hadn't realized that the Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart roles were originally played by Joseph Cotten and Van Heflin. Holy blap, MGM. I'd have paid good money to see that. And I'm not even that crazy about the film!



2. Woody Guthrie vs. Fred Trump, news at about four months ago but I just saw it now. I wonder how Arlo feels about the next generation.

3. I've been catching up on Rattle's series of Poets Respond. Recent poems that have stuck with me include Jay Sizemore's "Gun of a Bitch," Brody Parrish Craig's "Profane Androgen," and Luisa Muradyan Tannahill's "Purple Rain."

Today is otherwise a lot of work so far: my schedule has changed, so I have to be very efficient over the next few days. The Guardian just profiled a bookstore I walked past in April. (It was closed at the time.) That's neat.