Dreams and nocturnal bibliophilia.
So here I am, up at 3:45am when I have to be up at 6am for work.
I had a dream that involved the inhabitants of a nursing home, a very large foot, I mean car-sized, work, my mother, a girl I haven’t thought about in years, and John Travolta. For some reason we all decided to take a tour of some sort of underground aquarium, and there were bengal tiger-sharks and such other weirdness. Apparently we were discussing how we shouldn’t be there over girl-I-haven’t-thought-about-in-years’ loud milk steaming noises, talking about how we’ve found clues that have led us to believe there’s a killer on the loose. Then John Travolta pops up, scaring the crap out of us, and we find out it’s true. Then I wake up. Hi Nature, what’s new.
I finished the book I’ll be reviewing fairly soon, and read some Dylan Thomas. I’m not sure if I want to start Johnny Cash’s autobiography, a novel by Kathy Reichs (she’s the inspiration for a show I watch called “Bones” about a forensic anthropologist) or a Kay Scarpetta novel by Patricia Cornwell. I have so many books going anyway. Annie Dillard, some current affairs thing, Donald Miller, “Manic Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament,” which is good, but reads like stereo instructions (five bucks to whomever gets that reference… not really, but c’mon, play anyway).
Let’s try this sleep thing for a few more hours, shall we?