You break the ice at parties, but I break down

[sovay]

My sleep schedule has deranged again. I fell asleep after six in the morning and had a series of vivid, complex dreams whose plots mostly did not survive the transition to waking. I dreamed of a contemporary version of Bagoas, wearing a necklace of ancient silver coins. One of them had his lover's profile stamped on it. Alexander was immortal, but there was something vampiric in it, like Tanith Lee's Scarabae. I dreamed of flooded catacombs or underground canals, receding into time. The building overhead was a movie theater, showing The Wizard of Oz (1939). There were boats tied up where the Somerville has the Museum of Bad Art. I dreamed of reading a novel or a series of novels written contemporaneously with Dorothy L. Sayers, frequently recommended to fans of Wimsey in the same vein as Margery Allingham's Campion, but I can remember nothing about the mysteries or the series detective, just a secondary character standing in a crowded room, looking around at the company with a tight, tensely blank expression on his face. He's just had something unforgivable said to his face; the reader doesn't yet know if it's true, which is a different question from whether it should have come out sneeringly at a party. Afterward one of the other guests referred to him as "poor Mr. Cornelius," the kind of pitying dismissal that made me feel for the character whether I was supposed to or not. I wish I could remember anything at all about the resolution of the book.

Last night with sairaali and M. was lovely. Saira had a recipe for sweet potato soup from Cook's Illustrated and my latest orthodontist's appointment has left me basically living on soup for the foreseeable future, so we made it with all the toppings—maple sour cream, mirin-sautéed mushrooms, cider-candied bacon, scallions instead of chives—and it was savory and filling and the special tip about soaking the sweet potato for twenty minutes in warm shallot-and-thyme broth did not in any way result in a thinner soup, but it was really delicious purée. Before dinner, I did a handstand with M.'s assistance and Saira's coaching, which marks the first time since elementary school. It was fun. The point at which my inner ear rotated upside down felt exactly like the horizon flip of a looping roller coaster. I would need much better upper body and core strength in order to manage it alone. After dinner, we watched the first two episodes of the third season of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries (2012–), which I enjoyed and am still sorting some of my reactions to, because stylistically it feels like a set of classically elaborate Golden Age mysteries taking place in a world with much more nuanced gender issues than Agatha Christie or Ngaio Marsh. I like the dynamic between Phryne and Jack, how even if he's not coping very well with her tendency to bang random dudes in the middle of investigations, it doesn't prevent him from working with her and he doesn't try to make her stop. Their unresolved sexual tension is visible from space. Does anyone here recommend the books? I'm aware of their existence, but have never read any.

Today I am not building a bonfire, because I don't live in the right countries for it. My mother traditionally celebrates Guy Fawkes by watching V for Vendetta (2005). Have a song about fire: Jill Tracy, "Make It Burn." I need to do some practical things with my afternoon.

Comments

[sovay]

Spoilers if asked for, but suffice it to say I adore Dot even more in the books.

I'm really indifferent to spoilers—tell me about Dot?

[dormouse-in-tea.livejournal.com]

I love her too much to rely upon my uncertain powers of recollection, so I dug up the book. I fear this will give a SLIGHTLY wrong impression...Dot IS a good girl still...but it's rather nice at encapsulating that the two media are different indeed.

[Phryne] caught sight of herself in the mirror-shiny black pillar of the glove shop, and paused to tidy her hair. In the reflection she noticed the set, white face of a girl, standing behind her, unaware of Phryne's regard, who was slowly biting into her lower lip. The horror on that face gave Phryne a start, and she spun about. The girl was leaning on the opposite pillar. She was dressed in a light cotton shift of deep, shabby black, and her legs were bare. She was innocent of gloves, hat or coat and had scuffed house-slippers on her feet. Her long, light-brown hair was dragged back into an unbecoming bun, which was coming adrift from its pins. Her blue eyes stared out of what would have been a fresh, milk-maid's complexion, if she had not been tinged heliotrope by some illness or internal stress. On impulse, Phyrne crossed the Arcade and came up to the girl, wondering what it was she held concealed in her hands close to her body. As she approached, she identified it -- it was a knife.

'Hello, I was just going to get some tea,' she said casually, as though meeting an old acquaintance. 'Would you like to come too? Just over here,' she added chattily, leading the unresisting girl by the arm. 'Now, sit down, and we'll order. Waitress! Two teas, please. Sandwiches?' she asked and the girl nodded. 'And sandwiches,' added Phryne. 'I think that you'd better give me that knife, don't you?'

The girl handed over the knife, still mute, and Phyrne put it in her pocket. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, such as is used to chop vegetables, and it was razor-sharp. Phryne hoped that it would not slit the pocket-lining of her new coat.

Tea was brought. The Moorish arches, hung with artificial flowers and lanterns, were soothing, and the light was not harsh. Phyrne dispensed tea and sandwiches, and watched her companion becoming more lively with each mouthful.

'Thanks, Miss,' said the girl. 'I was famished.'

'That's all right,' Phyrne said easily. 'Some more?'

The girl nodded again, and Phyrne ordered some more food. A jazz orchestra was damaging the night somewhere, but not near enough to preclude speech. The young woman finished the sandwiches, leaned back, and sighed. Phryne offered her a gasper, and she refused rather indignantly.

'Nice girls don't smoke,' she said trenchantly. 'I mean...'

'I know what you mean,' smiled Phyrne. 'Well, what about it? What are you doing here?'

'Waiting for him,' said the girl. 'To kill him. ... '

[sovay]

'Waiting for him,' said the girl. 'To kill him. ... '

I have to say you have just presented me with a very good hook to read a novel for.

[edited for correct icon]

[dormouse-in-tea.livejournal.com]

I miiiiiiiiiight have had an ulterior motive....