sovay: (Lord Peter Wimsey)
Nightmares I had last night included: our apartment being shown to prospective tenants with no warning; not being able to find the Chinese restaurant in Malden where I was supposed to meet a friend; misplacing a rare and treasured book while visiting a used book store; and the white-capped waves of a glacier-blue sea falling away beyond the windows of an old schoolroom, icy water folding over the faces of black-haired mermaids as huge as ice floes, their flukes as coiling and tangled as deepwater kelp, their arms all pressing drowned human bodies like dolls to their breasts.

I understand three of these dreams. I am in the middle of a newly acquired four-novel omnibus of Margaret Millar and both The Stranger in My Grave (1960) and How Like an Angel (1962) are stories that start with a shake-up of identity, a destabilization that has to get worse before it gets better—if it gets better at all. [livejournal.com profile] derspatchel had an ER visit over the weekend and I am feeling panicky about money and loss. I have no obvious etiology for the Inuit-looking Arctic mermaids except maybe Sedna.

Last night Rob and I watched Nicholas Ray's They Live by Night (1949), which I hope to write about. We had just been discussing noirs with non-urban settings (which is how I discovered there is an entire book on the subject and now I covet it desperately, especially since it discusses some films I really like) and here was another one, plus a kind of romance I don't often see in film noir. Nice use of a helicopter, too.

I have a lot of work to finish today.
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