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All the time spent dreaming is never lost
Good morning, brain. I can only conjecture the reasons it pleased you to have me dream a play which was also a Symbolist painting in which old Oedipus, still king of Thebes, Iokaste's husband, unblinded, himself dreams that Teiresias and the Sphinx are one and the same: the two faces of the oracle: the lioness-woman with her falcon's wings, asking riddles; the man whose eyes are sealed, answering them. They shed one another other like snakeskins. Their smiles are the same, the close-mouthed kouros mystery.
Seriously, brain. Do I look like Gustave Moreau? I appreciate your trying to make up for the fact that I spent from two to four-thirty ayem cleaning my bedroom of the seemingly endless waves of baby spiders that came suddenly out of the woodwork—about forty-five minutes after I had vacuumed, dusted, and shelved all the windowsill-stacked books—because for a while there it was like the eight-legged zombie apocalypse, but did you really think I needed another high concept for the queue? I woke up with a line of pentameter; it wants to be a villanelle. Why do you do this to me?
At least the prior evening was lovely. I met![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stealthmuffin for dinner in Harvard Square: we ate at Tamarind Bay, home of delicious raw banana dumplings and Hyderabadi lamb curry with massive cardamom and the world's best bathroom signs; talked alchemy and Max Ernst and alternate histories and afterward poked around Raven Used Books, which fortunately had nothing that cried my name; I had already scored Anthony Burgess' translation of Cyrano de Bergerac from the Book Rack in Arlington. She has very kindly lent me the last four volumes of Fruits Basket. I need to find a copy of Une semaine de bonté (1934). I don't think I can blame it for my dreams, but it was rather like reading someone else's filtered through Wondermark.
I still wouldn't have minded the extra sleep, though. And fewer spiders.
Seriously, brain. Do I look like Gustave Moreau? I appreciate your trying to make up for the fact that I spent from two to four-thirty ayem cleaning my bedroom of the seemingly endless waves of baby spiders that came suddenly out of the woodwork—about forty-five minutes after I had vacuumed, dusted, and shelved all the windowsill-stacked books—because for a while there it was like the eight-legged zombie apocalypse, but did you really think I needed another high concept for the queue? I woke up with a line of pentameter; it wants to be a villanelle. Why do you do this to me?
At least the prior evening was lovely. I met
stealthmuffin for dinner in Harvard Square: we ate at Tamarind Bay, home of delicious raw banana dumplings and Hyderabadi lamb curry with massive cardamom and the world's best bathroom signs; talked alchemy and Max Ernst and alternate histories and afterward poked around Raven Used Books, which fortunately had nothing that cried my name; I had already scored Anthony Burgess' translation of Cyrano de Bergerac from the Book Rack in Arlington. She has very kindly lent me the last four volumes of Fruits Basket. I need to find a copy of Une semaine de bonté (1934). I don't think I can blame it for my dreams, but it was rather like reading someone else's filtered through Wondermark.I still wouldn't have minded the extra sleep, though. And fewer spiders.
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Are you kidding? The Island of Gustave Moreau would be magnificent—the mad scientist whose creations are not mere humans, but sphinxes, minotaurs, sea-foam nymphs and cyclopes, centaurs, winged death-angels. I'd read that in a heartbeat.
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In this case, in real life; I don't recall that I dreamed about spiders, which all things considered is kind of inexplicable.
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The dreams sound fascinating, despite the frustrating aspect. Good luck with the line of pentameter!
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Thank you. The trouble is that it requires a poem around it.
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But yay for the other fun stuff.
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They are not quite all gone. I am not thrilled.
But yay for the other fun stuff.
A great improvement on surprise arachnids!
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Luring not necessary!
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And I am most amused at the idea of the Island of Gustave Moreau...
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I think my subconscious is a lot more high-concept than I am.
And I am most amused at the idea of the Island of Gustave Moreau...
Oh, yeah.
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What can I do to help make this poem-or-story I hope you turn this into a reality?
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Get me more than six hours of sleep a night? I have no idea. But it does help to hear.
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Nine
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It was wonderful to get the chance to talk to you for more than a couple minutes at a time. (Tea conversations are fun, but always short and a little fragmented.) And thanks again for the encouragement -- I've started noodling again with some of the discarded ideas from the alchemical novel.
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Thank you. If it comes to anything, I will certainly keep you posted.
It was wonderful to get the chance to talk to you for more than a couple minutes at a time.
We should repeat the experiment!
I've started noodling again with some of the discarded ideas from the alchemical novel.
All right; w00t!