Some may recall the singing of the sirens lured in the sailors who'd wreck and drown

[sovay]

1. Last night I fell asleep before four in the morning and I stayed that way until shortly after one in the afternoon. In between, for the first time in months, I had detailed, narrative dreams in two distinct phases. I was watching a television play and participating in it at the same time: the killing of a king in something like a Shakespearean history, filmed with all the grey skies and chapped faces and damp wool of modern adaptations. There might or might not have been a plot with a pretender. The speeches should have been in verse, but I can't remember if they were. I fell in love with the youngest of the killers, the one who got the death-blow in, a thin, cowled, gender-ambiguous person with straw-spiky hair and a round face with too many bones in it. They were quick-spoken, taking little nervous breaths halfway through phrases; they were gentle and political and I knew they would be betrayed. We never did more than hold one another, briefly and longingly. I had to watch them found out and torn apart, long after the point where the frame of the play had blurred into something that was really happening. Quartering sounds neat as mathematics, I remember thinking; bodies aren't stamps with dotted lines. After the coronation, I pushed through the gallery of spectators into the backstage that had not existed since the first moments of the dream and found them in modern dress, scarf pulled down around their neck like a cowl, packing a knapsack. They burrowed against me instantly. Later I learned that their name was Filipe and their gender identity was "boi" and we went out to dinner with a bunch of other actors and dancers they worked with (at a restaurant near Fresh Pond that hasn't existed since I was a child, though I didn't remember that until after I'd woken) and it wasn't that the events of the history play had never happened, or that we were living in some kind of metatheatrical region between dreams, but dying and going out to dinner were apparently not mutually exclusive. It was not an idyllic dream, which interests me from here. Not all their friends liked or approved of me; I hadn't introduced them yet to any of mine beyond rushthatspeaks and derspatchel. It must have been colder where we were or earlier in the year, because I remember trees breaking into flower above our heads, white and pink petals all over the sidewalk. I remember how they fit into my arms, a little shorter than I was and much skinnier. I missed them when I woke up. Those are unusual dreams for me these days.

2. I spent much of this evening with sairaali and M., watching Star Trek: Voyager (1995–2001). It turns out that the pilot and the second half of the two-parter with the Borg Queen are not a good introduction to Voyager, but being shown four favorite episodes (and one chosen to showcase a character I was interested in) by someone who really likes the series is great. Robert Picardo continues his streak of fantastic character acting, because the Doctor was my favorite character almost at once. Her figure-hugging jumpsuit is idiotic, but Jeri Ryan's Seven of Nine may be coming in second. I am interested to see a show running two very different narratives about how to be human—or not—simultaneously, without putting them in conflict with one another. Will gladly watch more episodes as recommended. Also, Kate Mulgrew has an amazing voice. The last person I heard who sounded like her was Katharine Hepburn.

(I stand by my original assessment of Star Trek: Enterprise (2001–2005), however: it was terrible.)

3. I should cook fruit more often. The braces and other health concerns have made eating most raw fruits difficult, but the baked-down plums and nectarines really worked.

Comments

[ladymondegreen.livejournal.com]

I am so glad you had real sleep. I wonder if the dream was your body's way of fighting the insomnia by giving you a narrative hook you couldn't let go of? The death and life of doomed love is a pretty hefty narrative and plays right into Dybuk territory, even if your dream allowed for bodily resurrection.

It does occur to me to wonder whether there would be extensive scarring, or eerie smoothness on Filipe's skin. It puts me in mind of the end of Norman Jewison's take on Jesus Christ Superstar (among other things, including a bunch of variations on the "don't crack the bones" stories, though I don't think quartering, especially if there is dragging or drawing is likely to leave someone's bones intact).

I wonder whether the symbology of Filipe's thinness meant that your feelings of love and peotectiveness were increased by zir perceived fragility?

I am glad you were able to reconcile and even start relationship talks before the dream ended, even if you have been sundered by the sleeping/waking divide.

If it causes you to get good sleep, I hope you are reunited.

[sovay]

I wonder if the dream was your body's way of fighting the insomnia by giving you a narrative hook you couldn't let go of?

It felt like I finally got enough real sleep for my brain to function the way it's supposed to, complex narrative dreams included. But the part where it didn't all end tragically or traumatizingly was really nice.

It puts me in mind of the end of Norman Jewison's take on Jesus Christ Superstar (among other things, including a bunch of variations on the "don't crack the bones" stories, though I don't think quartering, especially if there is dragging or drawing is likely to leave someone's bones intact).

I know the folktales; I've never seen the film of Jesus Christ Superstar. What does it do about scars?

If it causes you to get good sleep, I hope you are reunited.

Thank you. That is one of the nicest things I have been wished lately.

[ladymondegreen.livejournal.com]

It felt like I finally got enough real sleep for my brain to function the way it's supposed to, complex narrative dreams included. But the part where it didn't all end tragically or traumatizingly was really nice.

That is excellent! I applaud your brain's meta-fiction coming in to save the day.

I know the folktales; I've never seen the film of Jesus Christ Superstar. What does it do about scars?

It is a deeply weird film. I don't know if you're familiar with the musical. I've never seen it staged, but I've seen the film a few times, including very recently as part of pecunium's Easter observation this year, and I had the soundtrack for the film at as early as 13. The film is absolutely nothing like what I pictured.

To give you a good idea of how odd it is, Google the name of the film and "high priest" and you should get a photo of the costumes and possibly the giant gothic jungle gym that the members of the priesthood are climbing around on during their primary musical numbers. Their hats are not to be believed.

There's nothing very specific about scars, but the primary conceit of the film is that it's like a classic passion play, where the players arrive to perform and then depart at the end. So we get the incongruous sight of Judas, post-hanging, slipping into fresh clothes and looking over his shoulder where his fellow actor is still hanging from the cross, just before he boards the bus and they drive away. For me this was always an eerie echo of medieval Christian martyr plays, where condemned criminals were used to depict the flayed, crucified or pin-cushioned saints, the better to horrify and delight the crowd with the realism of the passion.

Thank you. That is one of the nicest things I have been wished lately.

This, and many more good wishes. May your dreams be pleasant to inhabit.