![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Very long complicated dream most of which I don’t remember except that I was taking care of a bunch of seven-year-old boys—Robin and I think the Ortega brothers—and we were in some kind of theme park, and I looked out the window and saw either a dead or extremely debilitated male lion lying under a street lamp.
Her mate, the ancient female lion, was circling around him, obviously upset.
So, I called whatever authorities one is supposed to call under those circumstances in dreams.
The theme of this theme park was that it was a place where animals were free to wander. The animals had to be maintained in a strict numerical balance, though. The death of an animal was a Very Big Deal: An equivalent animal would have to be found.
I know! I thought. I’ll talk Simone into giving us Solomon!
Solomon was the lion from the circus that extremely long-term readers may remember I traveled with 10 years ago. (My, how time flies!)
And I was trying to decide exactly how to word the request to Simone when I woke up.
###
Sadly, what I have seems to be a cold, not allergies. My nose is leaking; my lungs are congested; scent molecules, like tiny shards of shattered glass, assail the olfactory receptors lining my nose.
This has not been a good year for me healthwise.
Is this what happens when you get old? Your resistance goes down and down and down?
###
Spent a very solitary but not unpleasant day making money.
In the evening, I succumbed to temptation and stalked a few old acquaintances on social media.
They’re currently enjoying far more worldly success than I am—articles in the New York Times, names under the Contributing Editor bar on mastheads of modestly famous publications, book deals that take them to China.
Knowing these people as I do, I’m sure they all spend a small but significant portion of their time stalking old acquaintances who have bigger book deals, who appear more regularly in the NYT.
That’s just the way this particular food chain rolls.
Anyway, it did strike me that Amaryllis piece I wrote some months back—aging hetero thinks back on the Sapphic lusts of her youth—is perfect for the NYT’s Modern Love series and that the Eleanor Roosevelt story might work very well for Kelly Link’s magazine if I can just suss up the horror of the actual encounter with the incestuous ghost. Tricky that, since the whole piece is written in this deeply Victorian voice, kind of as though Horace Walpole was narrating an encounter with the Roosevelt cousins.
But, you know. I wrote the story. I really should do something with it.
###
Saw the first flowers of spring! They’re not violets. They’re not crocuses. They’re not those little spur irises.
What are they?
Her mate, the ancient female lion, was circling around him, obviously upset.
So, I called whatever authorities one is supposed to call under those circumstances in dreams.
The theme of this theme park was that it was a place where animals were free to wander. The animals had to be maintained in a strict numerical balance, though. The death of an animal was a Very Big Deal: An equivalent animal would have to be found.
I know! I thought. I’ll talk Simone into giving us Solomon!
Solomon was the lion from the circus that extremely long-term readers may remember I traveled with 10 years ago. (My, how time flies!)
And I was trying to decide exactly how to word the request to Simone when I woke up.
###
Sadly, what I have seems to be a cold, not allergies. My nose is leaking; my lungs are congested; scent molecules, like tiny shards of shattered glass, assail the olfactory receptors lining my nose.
This has not been a good year for me healthwise.
Is this what happens when you get old? Your resistance goes down and down and down?
###
Spent a very solitary but not unpleasant day making money.
In the evening, I succumbed to temptation and stalked a few old acquaintances on social media.
They’re currently enjoying far more worldly success than I am—articles in the New York Times, names under the Contributing Editor bar on mastheads of modestly famous publications, book deals that take them to China.
Knowing these people as I do, I’m sure they all spend a small but significant portion of their time stalking old acquaintances who have bigger book deals, who appear more regularly in the NYT.
That’s just the way this particular food chain rolls.
Anyway, it did strike me that Amaryllis piece I wrote some months back—aging hetero thinks back on the Sapphic lusts of her youth—is perfect for the NYT’s Modern Love series and that the Eleanor Roosevelt story might work very well for Kelly Link’s magazine if I can just suss up the horror of the actual encounter with the incestuous ghost. Tricky that, since the whole piece is written in this deeply Victorian voice, kind of as though Horace Walpole was narrating an encounter with the Roosevelt cousins.
But, you know. I wrote the story. I really should do something with it.
###
Saw the first flowers of spring! They’re not violets. They’re not crocuses. They’re not those little spur irises.
What are they?
