How I have been doing this long weekend is not very well, in ways generically and specifically disheartening, but it has interested me to discover that while I have to do it by hand with pencil and paper, as if it's muscle memory rather than mental recall, I can still scan classical Greek sufficient to fake a Homeric epithet for our Hestia, slayer of towels: μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ τέκνου Ἥρας μακτροφόνοιο. (She sang to us earlier this evening of her triumph over the roll we were still using.) The attentive reader may note that I am relying heavily on both Attic and epic correption and an eighth-century audience would think I didn't know my theogony, but it makes me feel better.
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- 1: Once you know it's a dream, it can't hurt
- 2: There's no boat to take me where all the stars go to cross the water
- 3: All the ghosts, some old, some new
- 4: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 5: Let the lights run like rivers all over my skin
- 6: I am bound to these shores, I'll be bound till the end
- 7: Wish everyone could hear when she sings
- 8: I cannot feel it, the veil of black, a fine spray of white paint
- 9: I make sure there are hidden messages in my work
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