I woke up feeling like someone had hit me in the chest, and, an hour and a half later, the sensation has not passed. It's not so much a physical feeling, but then I don't know what it would be instead, if not physical.
Yesterday I did 1,332 words on a new piece for Sirenia Digest, which I am calling "The Bone Collector." So, not a bad writing day, really.
I did not have the New Recurring Dream yesterday morning, and so I thought maybe it was done with me. Wrong. It was back this morning. Not another visit to the "space balloon," but I was very clearly that same version of me and stuck in that same world. For one thing, there was the huge fur coat, and Spooky says this is all because David Bowie turned 62 yesterday. Who am I to argue? Anyway, yeah, what I remember of the dream was chasing someone along an endless series of wet streets, like some looped bit of film noir. There were dogs barking everywhere, and all the windows I passed seemed lit from within by neon. There was the distant cacophony of what I think must have been artillery fire. I slipped on the wet pavement a couple of times and fell. I never even caught a glimpse of who or what I was chasing. I wound up warming my hands over a fire burning inside an old oil drum (or something of the sort), listening to a crazy woman talk about all the years she'd spent trying to find a building that was high enough that she could see where the sky ended. She was also warming her hands by the fire. Later, I was breaking beer bottles against a wall, and it seemed like the artillery sounds were coming nearer.
Not much to work with.
Oh, and yesterday, cliff52 had this to say about the dreams, about my doctoring the orange man's bullet wound: Were you dressing the wound, or was there something inside him that you had to have? And upon reading that my first reaction was something like, "Great. Thanks. Just what I didn't need." To be forced to consider that possibility, I mean.
Explosion falls upon deaf ears,
While we're swimming in a sea of sham.
Living in the shadow of vanity,
A complex fashion for a simple man.
David Bowie, "The Motel"
I took Spooky out for sushi last night. She was feeling blue, and sometimes sushi helps. It has been very warm here, and there was a thunderstorm before I went to bed.
We still have auctions going, and you might also have a look at Spooky's latest doll, whose name is Clarra.
Also, a new study by by the Commonwealth Fund found "the United States dead last, in providing timely and effective healthcare to its citizens, according to a survey...of preventable deaths in 19 industrialized countries." Didn't we know that already, and, also, if it's called "Yahoo news" does that mean it's news for yahoos?