Dead leaves were blowing in the streets as I drove to and from my appointment this afternoon, obviously loosened by the melting snow, but in conjunction with the grey skies and the skeletal trees, they created a convincing illusion of autumn. By nightfall it had started to speckle with rain and smell like spring. It was so cold this weekend that my back seized up if I wasn't walking full tilt outside.
I have been sleeping so little that I remember few dreams, but while napping I had a vivid nightmare like a lithograph of the trenches: a man's white face washed in black mud. It had a blocky, spattery look, not at all like the cursive engravings of David Jones. If I dream in visual art, it's usually film.
Hestia has been put on dental treats by her GP and nuzzles her head into my palm to crunch them eagerly, snip-snap-snup. The first time she did it, it gave me a physical shock of her brother, who always used to burrow for any lingering traces of lox or chicken or other human provisions clearly intended for the delectation of cat. Just now I was feeding her dinner and she took a moment to whack and consume a stray moth before returning to her original main course.
I didn't realize until I was catching up on the news that Mayor Wu had shown up to defend her sanctuary city with a cross of ashes on her forehead and a baby in her arms, which definitely mobilizes some imagery and good for her for pairing it with frank speech. "A city that's scared is not a city that's safe, a land ruled by fear is not the land of the free."
(It was nicer to read than the news that we we have reached the point in the national discourse of relitigating the lynching of Leo Frank at the level of the Department of Defense. How shocked I am that the deputy press secretary also propagates white genocide conspiracy theories and refers to Ukraine as "globalist." What a fragment of the blatant Gish gallop. Every writer I know would have devised a less hack-rate dystopia than the one we are barreled into.)
It doesn't come with a thoroughly delightful vid for a movie I have loved since high school, but I have also been listening to Grahame Moore's original version of "Tom Paine's Bones" (1995).
I have been sleeping so little that I remember few dreams, but while napping I had a vivid nightmare like a lithograph of the trenches: a man's white face washed in black mud. It had a blocky, spattery look, not at all like the cursive engravings of David Jones. If I dream in visual art, it's usually film.
Hestia has been put on dental treats by her GP and nuzzles her head into my palm to crunch them eagerly, snip-snap-snup. The first time she did it, it gave me a physical shock of her brother, who always used to burrow for any lingering traces of lox or chicken or other human provisions clearly intended for the delectation of cat. Just now I was feeding her dinner and she took a moment to whack and consume a stray moth before returning to her original main course.
I didn't realize until I was catching up on the news that Mayor Wu had shown up to defend her sanctuary city with a cross of ashes on her forehead and a baby in her arms, which definitely mobilizes some imagery and good for her for pairing it with frank speech. "A city that's scared is not a city that's safe, a land ruled by fear is not the land of the free."
(It was nicer to read than the news that we we have reached the point in the national discourse of relitigating the lynching of Leo Frank at the level of the Department of Defense. How shocked I am that the deputy press secretary also propagates white genocide conspiracy theories and refers to Ukraine as "globalist." What a fragment of the blatant Gish gallop. Every writer I know would have devised a less hack-rate dystopia than the one we are barreled into.)
It doesn't come with a thoroughly delightful vid for a movie I have loved since high school, but I have also been listening to Grahame Moore's original version of "Tom Paine's Bones" (1995).
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