This morning, I dreamt of Maine and of swimming in a deep, dark sea. It was dark, always, as if perceptually night, and there were old and whispering forests. It was very Sidney Sime. But it was in no way a nightmare. It's the sort of long, long dream I wish I could recall more of, but it drifts somewhere just out of reach, no more now than a hazy handful of snapshots and half recollections, redolent of deep time and bitter, unseen beings.
Stale Hell, lest I be remiss:
The snow has mostly melted from the northern side of these street. Much of the southern side is always in shadow. There will be snow over there into April.
Yesterday, email conversations and a sorry 305 words on "The Living and Their Stillborn."
I'm very much enjoying what The Walking Dead has been doing, the last several episodes. Last week's, "Still," which centered exclusively on Daryl and Beth, an exquisite little short story, pure Southern Gothic. I actually wish the zombies hadn't been a part of it. The nature of the apocalypse should have been left unstated. We saw the next episode, "Alone," last night. And I read more of the Burroughs biography. And fucked around on Second Life, rebuilding my av with Mesh. I read "Paleohistology and histovariability of the Permian stereospondyl Rhinesuchus."
I'm smoking too much weed. But it helps.