My heart can't recognize home

[sovay]

Nightmares I had last night included: our apartment being shown to prospective tenants with no warning; not being able to find the Chinese restaurant in Malden where I was supposed to meet a friend; misplacing a rare and treasured book while visiting a used book store; and the white-capped waves of a glacier-blue sea falling away beyond the windows of an old schoolroom, icy water folding over the faces of black-haired mermaids as huge as ice floes, their flukes as coiling and tangled as deepwater kelp, their arms all pressing drowned human bodies like dolls to their breasts.

I understand three of these dreams. I am in the middle of a newly acquired four-novel omnibus of Margaret Millar and both The Stranger in My Grave (1960) and How Like an Angel (1962) are stories that start with a shake-up of identity, a destabilization that has to get worse before it gets better—if it gets better at all. derspatchel had an ER visit over the weekend and I am feeling panicky about money and loss. I have no obvious etiology for the Inuit-looking Arctic mermaids except maybe Sedna.

Last night Rob and I watched Nicholas Ray's They Live by Night (1949), which I hope to write about. We had just been discussing noirs with non-urban settings (which is how I discovered there is an entire book on the subject and now I covet it desperately, especially since it discusses some films I really like) and here was another one, plus a kind of romance I don't often see in film noir. Nice use of a helicopter, too.

I have a lot of work to finish today.

Comments

[davidgillon]

and the white-capped waves of a glacier-blue sea falling away beyond the windows of an old schoolroom, icy water folding over the faces of black-haired mermaids as huge as ice floes, their flukes as coiling and tangled as deepwater kelp, their arms all pressing drowned human bodies like dolls to their breasts.

Even your dreams are poetic!

[sovay]

Even your dreams are poetic!

At least some of them!

(Thank you.)