Wednesday Already
Apr. 16th, 2014 09:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
handful_ofdustThis morning I had one of those strikingly awful dreams, in the few minutes between first waking and actually getting up: I was watching/experiencing a film, maybe made in the 1970s, that chronicled a witch-trial from Germany in the 1500s; a total frame-up from the get-go, in which two people were essentially being accused of witchcraft for conducting a sexual affair outside of marriage. There'd been the usual roundelay of humiliation and torture, and now I was making a long, uninterrupted tracking circuit around a huge hall where the protagonists were being burned alive together, each in one bowl of what appeared to be a huge pair of scales that rocked back and forth like a teeter-totter up above.
Under my feet the floor of the hall was ridged and odd-feeling, and when I looked down I saw that that was because other witches had been entombed with their rotting, half-mummified faces sticking up through the surface of the floor, while elsewhere it was dotted with ear-shaped hole that gave me to understand there were dungeons beneath where other accused people listened, waiting to die as well. At a certain point the film started running backwards--our protagonists' skin blushed back from black to pink, their wounds healed, they put their clothes back on, they climbed out of the scales and ran outside, where they were promptly re-arrested and I realized the whole thing was going to happen all over again.
Yeah, anyhow. A penetrating sense of dread and sorrow, haunting in the extreme. So I made myself wake up again, with a wrench, and went about my day.
Last night, for example, I discovered that "Drawn Up From Deep Places" is back on the market again, since its original venue has gone out of business; scoped out another since, so I'm going to spend some time de-pornifying it a bit, and send it off there. (Don't worry, I'll preserve the original "cut" for later.) I also need to push myself through the piece for Aghast Magazine, currently called "Cuckoo," which I hope the editors will like. It's an odd little piece--more a monologue than anything else, and consolidates a few of the less charitable ideas I've had lately about how some people react to the difficulties of being the parent of a "special needs" child. I don't want it to be too "bok-bok," though, so I have to be careful. Better to push through and fix it later, though, as ever.
And the vertigo is still there, though a little better, at least. I'm hoping to work out tonight. Maybe not to do yoga, because sometimes that makes it worse--the lying flat part.
I'll leave you with a link I discovered this morning: the amazing story of Geeshie and Elvie, two formative blueswomen whose music has sparked obsession in hundreds of collectors, but whose lives outside of a brief creative intersection remained a mystery until, with painstaking care, a series of fragments and interviews were compiled to solve--possibly--at least some of the questions their songs raise. I really like the interactive aspect of this article, which allows you to listen to the sections of music it quotes, and definitely think these ladies deserve a book, a movie...whatever. To be heard and not known is a very weird sort of immortality indeed. Check it out, here (http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/04/13/magazine/blues.html?ref=magazine&_r=3).
Under my feet the floor of the hall was ridged and odd-feeling, and when I looked down I saw that that was because other witches had been entombed with their rotting, half-mummified faces sticking up through the surface of the floor, while elsewhere it was dotted with ear-shaped hole that gave me to understand there were dungeons beneath where other accused people listened, waiting to die as well. At a certain point the film started running backwards--our protagonists' skin blushed back from black to pink, their wounds healed, they put their clothes back on, they climbed out of the scales and ran outside, where they were promptly re-arrested and I realized the whole thing was going to happen all over again.
Yeah, anyhow. A penetrating sense of dread and sorrow, haunting in the extreme. So I made myself wake up again, with a wrench, and went about my day.
Last night, for example, I discovered that "Drawn Up From Deep Places" is back on the market again, since its original venue has gone out of business; scoped out another since, so I'm going to spend some time de-pornifying it a bit, and send it off there. (Don't worry, I'll preserve the original "cut" for later.) I also need to push myself through the piece for Aghast Magazine, currently called "Cuckoo," which I hope the editors will like. It's an odd little piece--more a monologue than anything else, and consolidates a few of the less charitable ideas I've had lately about how some people react to the difficulties of being the parent of a "special needs" child. I don't want it to be too "bok-bok," though, so I have to be careful. Better to push through and fix it later, though, as ever.
And the vertigo is still there, though a little better, at least. I'm hoping to work out tonight. Maybe not to do yoga, because sometimes that makes it worse--the lying flat part.
I'll leave you with a link I discovered this morning: the amazing story of Geeshie and Elvie, two formative blueswomen whose music has sparked obsession in hundreds of collectors, but whose lives outside of a brief creative intersection remained a mystery until, with painstaking care, a series of fragments and interviews were compiled to solve--possibly--at least some of the questions their songs raise. I really like the interactive aspect of this article, which allows you to listen to the sections of music it quotes, and definitely think these ladies deserve a book, a movie...whatever. To be heard and not known is a very weird sort of immortality indeed. Check it out, here (http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/04/13/magazine/blues.html?ref=magazine&_r=3).
