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Occasionally we will think and see that goings-on may be frayed
I slept another eight hours. I begin to think the world may still be ending after all.
And I dreamed urban fantasy, except that it was taking place in the salt marshes of New England: retrieving an oar from a man who lived alone in a surprisingly well-kept house with nothing but curlews and cordgrass for miles. It wasn't much to look at, short and splintery; it had power over ghosts and a probably fictitious association with Odysseus (the only man to sail to the gates of Hades and return again, his crew all lost, reclaimed by those dark shores), and his refusal to lend it to me even under orders mystified me until I realized he was a ghost himself, hiding out from whatever he should have gone on to. I am afraid I threatened him into it. By the time I got to Brig o' Dread in the "Lyke-Wake Dirge," the air was full of half-seen foxfire in the twilight and he'd have given me his fingernails if that would have sent off whatever lovers or creditors he recognized in those desolate lanterns; but then he was too frightened to let the oar out of his sight, so I had to take him with me when I left. And facing a road trip with a cranky, chattery, insecure dead man, it became evident to me that this dream was meant for either![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
strange_selkie or teenybuffalo and I woke up.
Tune in tomorrow night . . . ?
And I dreamed urban fantasy, except that it was taking place in the salt marshes of New England: retrieving an oar from a man who lived alone in a surprisingly well-kept house with nothing but curlews and cordgrass for miles. It wasn't much to look at, short and splintery; it had power over ghosts and a probably fictitious association with Odysseus (the only man to sail to the gates of Hades and return again, his crew all lost, reclaimed by those dark shores), and his refusal to lend it to me even under orders mystified me until I realized he was a ghost himself, hiding out from whatever he should have gone on to. I am afraid I threatened him into it. By the time I got to Brig o' Dread in the "Lyke-Wake Dirge," the air was full of half-seen foxfire in the twilight and he'd have given me his fingernails if that would have sent off whatever lovers or creditors he recognized in those desolate lanterns; but then he was too frightened to let the oar out of his sight, so I had to take him with me when I left. And facing a road trip with a cranky, chattery, insecure dead man, it became evident to me that this dream was meant for either
strange_selkie or teenybuffalo and I woke up.Tune in tomorrow night . . . ?
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*love*
I will most definitely tune in!
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Tomorrow, of course, will almost certainly be the proverbial something completely different . . .
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Ha. I sometimes get other peoples' dreams, and my reaction to them is just the same.
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Do they ever wind up with their proper owners?
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Anyway, yay more sleep!
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*(Though it's the one under Grimsvotn this time, not Eyjafjallajökull.)
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This is true. I was slightly distressed when my mother told me it sounded like the pilot for a supernatural TV show.
Anyway, yay more sleep!
I'll take it.
The world has not ended yet, although another Icelandic volcano seems to be erupting, just in time for my flight.
I saw that! Never mind the Rapture; roll on Ragnarök . .
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Or maybe you don't, but yes, it sounds as if I should have got that one. One always appreciates the practical application of the Lyke-Wake Dirge, even in subconscious territories. Keep the side up! And all that.
An oar is fascinating. Maybe your cranky, chattery dead man was a psychopomp who fell down on the job, and had to face everyone he didn't ferry...
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Well, now we know it is one of those songs I can sing in my sleep . . .
Maybe your cranky, chattery dead man was a psychopomp who fell down on the job, and had to face everyone he didn't ferry...
There's an interesting thought. I don't know if the oar was his, or where he got it from; I don't know if anyone ever said.
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Dream on.
Nine
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It'll probaby be something boring tomorrow . . .
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Nine
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Well, on the bright side,
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Nine
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Over my shoulder I'm carrying my oar,
When someone asks me, "Wot
Is that funny thing you got?"
I know I'll never go to sea no more.
No wonder he was hanging out in the salt marsh. It creates all sorts of questions--suppose he'd been given a warning that something would come for him "by sea or by land" and he was taking it literally and living on neither? I picture him in a house on legs, like the ones in Marshfield, MA (hence the name).
You're quite right, I'd love to have that dream. However, I think it's happy with you.
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It was a stilt house, actually, with a boardwalk through the tall grasses leading up to the front door.
You're quite right, I'd love to have that dream. However, I think it's happy with you.
I hope so. I think it wants to be a story.
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It's a song for sending on the dead; in the dream, it served as a calling-on, too.
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he'd have given me his fingernails if that would have sent off whatever lovers or creditors he recognized in those desolate lanterns
YES--I am glad they survived from 2011 to 2014.
I hope more people find and read Ghost Signs. I think it's excellent that you're reading it at Arisia--that should loop a few more readers in.
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I liked them. They worked better than anything else I could have written there
I hope more people find and read Ghost Signs. I think it's excellent that you're reading it at Arisia--that should loop a few more readers in.
Thank you. I am hoping!