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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.