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I never took my true heart, I never wrote it down
Mostly what I remember from last night's dreams is a film I was watching on my computer (with a stranger who had suddenly replaced a casual friend of mine, but that's another story), one of whose protagonists was a grey-barred bird that had been human once. Or perhaps he was still human, only bird-shaped; he sounded like anyone else when he spoke and none of his friends seemed to care. I remember someone saying, after a minor setback of the sort that looks devastating when you've got nothing else going on, "That went down like a gull tied to a bathyscape," but it wasn't especially significant of an avian motif. It was kind of a plotless movie, lo-fi, digital video, acting probably best described as mumblecore, except for the last scene. The five protagonists are walking over downland, following the sunken line of a stream among the timothy and the bedstraw, when a hawk strikes the bird in the back like a bullet. He falls at the damp place in the grasses, which is almost like a beach-edge with the gravel (now that I'm awake, it must have been flint); only a little blood shows through his feathers, hooked deeply in between his wings. Two darkly slicked human hands part the bird's back, as if emerging through a taut curtain, and soon there is a naked man lying at the center of a shallow crater—its shape a little like a snow angel, a little like the first shadow you learn to cast with both hands on a wall—exhausted and feather-flecked, still glistening the grainy black of crude oil. But then the camera angle widens and you see that while his friends who stand gazing at him, a little clay tableau as the wind ruffles the downs, are still dressed as casually as the moment before, their skins have become white and soft, black-dashed, their eyes round and ringed as owls or kachinas, flat-faced except for the small, predatory beak. Grey pinfeathers in their hair. The film stopped there. I woke up thinking of The Fall (2006).
I really wanted to finish my Turing poem before I saw Breaking the Code at the Central Square Theater tomorrow afternoon, but I don't think it's going to happen. This has been what people call a week.
(R.I.P. Sidney Lumet.)
I really wanted to finish my Turing poem before I saw Breaking the Code at the Central Square Theater tomorrow afternoon, but I don't think it's going to happen. This has been what people call a week.
(R.I.P. Sidney Lumet.)
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And I hope that Breaking the Code is fabulous.
Nine
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Thank you. I never can take credit for them.
And I hope that Breaking the Code is fabulous.
I am hoping. I think the chances are good.
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We can hope that there will be enough of a revival of interest in him that the uncut Prince of the City will finally be released on Blu-Ray / DVD. There's 15-30 minutes missing from the available (theatrical) version.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0082945/usercomments-8
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I hope you enjoyed the play, poem finished or not.
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After reading this, though, my working theory is that it is possible to reliably tell the difference, because the descriptions of the real ones just aren't as appealing as the ones you dreamt or otherwise invented. On the other hand, it's also possible I'm totally missing some hilarious and subtle jokes that depend on references I don't get. You could be making most of the rest up, for all I know without checking.
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The dreams are all real, although I'm not sure if that answers your question.
I mean, posting reviews of non-existent books is the sort of thing I would be tempted to do if I had just posted lots of reviews of real ones.
I don't think I've ever reviewed anything that doesn't exist. I must have written about fictional books and movies at some point, if only because everyone does. Mostly they end up in my stories.
After reading this, though, my working theory is that it is possible to reliably tell the difference, because the descriptions of the real ones just aren't as appealing as the ones you dreamt or otherwise invented.
Hah. I rather like some of the things I read or see, but I'm honored! I meant it about my sleeping brain and art direction: I wish I could get more of the sense of my dreams into my writing. I wish some of the things I dream about existed. (The Britten Kipling settings, bilingual Etruscan folktales, gender-swapped Marlowe and Anakreon, the play which was a Symbolist painting, Rodgers and Hammerstein's Sleeping Beauty, and the manga about chaos theorist Loki particularly frustrate me in this direction. Some of them I could write myself, but there's nothing to do about the music.)