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mallorys_cameraBambi almost killed me last night.
Actually, it was a conspiracy murder plot. There were five Bambis.
They scooted across the road as cool as you please – a narrow, winding, dark country road – while I bore down on them at 45 miles an hour.
Why wasn’t I going 60? Well, I’d had this odd sort of thing happen to me about a mile uproad: I’d hallucinated animals on the road. No, really. I don’t know how else to describe it. I knew I wasn’t seeing anything that was actually there and yet I was seeing things that weren’t actually there. Indistinct things, moving blobs of darkness against an even darker road, I recognized torsos and lower extremities but no other details. Was I freaked out by this? Not really. But it made me slow down considerably. Otherwise I might have been going so fast that I couldn’t brake in time when I encountered the real Bambis.
The effort of staving off real winter finally became too exhausting for me. The winds are gusting 45 miles an hour outside my picture window which is now swathed with multiple sheets of plastic. They’re supposed to help keep the cold out. They don’t. Turning on the heat is slightly less efficient at warming the little cement bungalow than making a campfire out of twenty dollar bills in the middle of the living room might be, so I am bundled in sweater, sweatshirt, muffler and scrivener gloves and nibbling stale chocolate Santas to keep my basal metabolism up.
I’m brain dead. Hadn’t been sleeping at all well so last night I just crashed, went back to a dream scenario that’s very familiar, this post-apocalyptic village hidden somewhere inside New York City – this time at the far end of Flatbush Avenue.
These dreams are always questing dreams that involve huge casts of characters and unroll over really long intervals of time, so that when I wake up from one, I’m decades older – except, of course, I’m not.
I never want to wake up from these dreams but when I finally do they vanish too fast for me to write down the details, which are so loopy and nonlinear anyway that doubtless they would make absolutely no sense anyway.
Lots of stuff to do.
Hating winter, hating winter, hating winter.
Actually, it was a conspiracy murder plot. There were five Bambis.
They scooted across the road as cool as you please – a narrow, winding, dark country road – while I bore down on them at 45 miles an hour.
Why wasn’t I going 60? Well, I’d had this odd sort of thing happen to me about a mile uproad: I’d hallucinated animals on the road. No, really. I don’t know how else to describe it. I knew I wasn’t seeing anything that was actually there and yet I was seeing things that weren’t actually there. Indistinct things, moving blobs of darkness against an even darker road, I recognized torsos and lower extremities but no other details. Was I freaked out by this? Not really. But it made me slow down considerably. Otherwise I might have been going so fast that I couldn’t brake in time when I encountered the real Bambis.
The effort of staving off real winter finally became too exhausting for me. The winds are gusting 45 miles an hour outside my picture window which is now swathed with multiple sheets of plastic. They’re supposed to help keep the cold out. They don’t. Turning on the heat is slightly less efficient at warming the little cement bungalow than making a campfire out of twenty dollar bills in the middle of the living room might be, so I am bundled in sweater, sweatshirt, muffler and scrivener gloves and nibbling stale chocolate Santas to keep my basal metabolism up.
I’m brain dead. Hadn’t been sleeping at all well so last night I just crashed, went back to a dream scenario that’s very familiar, this post-apocalyptic village hidden somewhere inside New York City – this time at the far end of Flatbush Avenue.
These dreams are always questing dreams that involve huge casts of characters and unroll over really long intervals of time, so that when I wake up from one, I’m decades older – except, of course, I’m not.
I never want to wake up from these dreams but when I finally do they vanish too fast for me to write down the details, which are so loopy and nonlinear anyway that doubtless they would make absolutely no sense anyway.
Lots of stuff to do.
Hating winter, hating winter, hating winter.
