THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I ammend my previous entry that things have been edging by slowly.
My metaphor attenae have been tuned particularly sensitively lately.
Yesterday, as I slept in between the pages of Victor Hugo, I dreamt like you only do when you're really sleeping.
The first, if I recall, I got raped. Kind of.
I can't remember very much except it had something to do with the garden of a yellow house and it was a sunny day and I was walking down an alley near Alix's house. I can remember the street perfectly. I can't really remember him though. He was large and unpleasent.
And I was only afraid- terrified- for just a moment, and then just fascinated by the carnality and strangeness of it.
And then it wasn't me or my body and it was some other girl and I walked away.
The metaphors seem particularly obvious here.
The second was, I'm disappointed to say, just as marginally poignant.
The context is blurry, but I remember someone telling me you could take out both your eyes and they would be fine- (I had been thinking of Mrs. Muno's discussion on growing human eyes in dishes)- and that the more important thing was the third eye.
And that no one really had a real third eyes- what was important was the appearance of one.
And, sometime during, I was getting ready to go out, and just as I was about to put my contact lenses in, I opened my mirror and saw that my left eye wasn't there.
All the makeup was, but that actual eye itself was gone. Just like they had said it could be. And I couldn't find it- and I wasn't so much worried about the fact that I had lost and eye, just that I would look very much like Tabby to be walking about without one.
And that my vision wasn't impeded, which I found strange.
This, also, is less than tedious, but the plot was interesting...
I'm still thinking about the Scotsman dream. I remember his face...
Consequently, all my favorite songs are in French at the moment...