I spent some serious time last night thinking about things that frightened me deeply as a child. It was a somewhat less loaded question when I was invited to participate in the interview a couple of months ago. Under the current conditions, I don't think my limbic system appreciated the inquiry. I fell asleep hours later than I have in days, which means that not only is today cold and grey and drizzling when I had been hoping to get out and run around, I feel temporally off-kilter and for some reason, out of all the aspects of society of which physical distancing is currently depriving all of us, I am desperately missing museums. I said last night in comments with ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redbird that I am a digitally fluent person who does best in mostly analog contexts and it's true. I can look at all sorts of treasures online, but sometimes you just want to stand in front of some dinosaur bones for a while. I keep thinking of the ichthyosaur mounted on the wall of the second-floor landing of the Green Wing of the Boston Museum of Science. I would also enjoy bookstores and the ability to complain normally about the MBTA.
When I finally slept, I did not have nightmares, although I note that I dreamt a slight future in which the coronavirus had swept the globe; it was referred to euphemistically as "the fever" or "the cough" when people were establishing with one another how their families had come through it. Mostly the dream entailed the investigation of a journalist with whom I was hanging out into the sudden emergence of a charismatic community organizer which turned out to be the Arthurian mythos playing out at street level, refreshingly in a sort of open-ended remix rather than the foredoomed one brief shining moment mode. I mean this one random red-headed bus driver was Excalibur; at one point he melted and reforged and absolutely no one sitting around in a circle on stackable plastic chairs in the renovated warehouse arts space was fazed. Autolycus scratched at my pillow and woke me as some kind of decisive turn of the plot was approaching. Some time after that, I dreamed that I was trying to get a 16 mm print of James Whale's Journey's End (1930) successfully projected onto the wall of my office. There were technical difficulties; I kept getting these black-and-white flash-bangs of trenches and faces and explosions shaking down earth. I wish I owned a 16 mm print of James Whale's Journey's End that I could project onto my wall. I also wish I owned the painted wooden carving of a barong that hung from the ceiling of my office in the dream. Anyway, that seems like a strong movie recommendation from my id. I can't imagine why it's stressing about close-quarters PTSD.
P.S. What the fuck is this nonsense with using a national emergency as cover to steal the last land of the Mashpee Wampanoag? I have been grudgingly beginning to respect Governor Baker for finally, finally standing up to the man in the White House for once. I don't know what his options are here, but I hope he remembers that the people he needs to protect as governor of this state include the people who were here before the state was.
redbird that I am a digitally fluent person who does best in mostly analog contexts and it's true. I can look at all sorts of treasures online, but sometimes you just want to stand in front of some dinosaur bones for a while. I keep thinking of the ichthyosaur mounted on the wall of the second-floor landing of the Green Wing of the Boston Museum of Science. I would also enjoy bookstores and the ability to complain normally about the MBTA.When I finally slept, I did not have nightmares, although I note that I dreamt a slight future in which the coronavirus had swept the globe; it was referred to euphemistically as "the fever" or "the cough" when people were establishing with one another how their families had come through it. Mostly the dream entailed the investigation of a journalist with whom I was hanging out into the sudden emergence of a charismatic community organizer which turned out to be the Arthurian mythos playing out at street level, refreshingly in a sort of open-ended remix rather than the foredoomed one brief shining moment mode. I mean this one random red-headed bus driver was Excalibur; at one point he melted and reforged and absolutely no one sitting around in a circle on stackable plastic chairs in the renovated warehouse arts space was fazed. Autolycus scratched at my pillow and woke me as some kind of decisive turn of the plot was approaching. Some time after that, I dreamed that I was trying to get a 16 mm print of James Whale's Journey's End (1930) successfully projected onto the wall of my office. There were technical difficulties; I kept getting these black-and-white flash-bangs of trenches and faces and explosions shaking down earth. I wish I owned a 16 mm print of James Whale's Journey's End that I could project onto my wall. I also wish I owned the painted wooden carving of a barong that hung from the ceiling of my office in the dream. Anyway, that seems like a strong movie recommendation from my id. I can't imagine why it's stressing about close-quarters PTSD.
P.S. What the fuck is this nonsense with using a national emergency as cover to steal the last land of the Mashpee Wampanoag? I have been grudgingly beginning to respect Governor Baker for finally, finally standing up to the man in the White House for once. I don't know what his options are here, but I hope he remembers that the people he needs to protect as governor of this state include the people who were here before the state was.
