Yes. And stereotypes ... and singularities.
I find I still have four readers! After forever alienating another last week. So I hope it's clear to all four that my Grip on Reality remains steadfast, despite some straying down strange roads of late.
The night, nonetheless, was so odd that I don't wish to listen to 'Today' today and be drawn back into bomb attacks and the routine madness of some politicians. Just for a day.
Thing is, I simply couldn't sleep, finally managed to drop a book at 3:30, yet was up even earlier than yesterday, and while for some 7:15 am is admirably routine, it usually wrecks me. I had three such strange and lucid dreams.
Some might argue I had a couple of current worries, one for a good but heartsick acquaintance, the other about my lab results. But though my "unconscious" just may be more concerned than I think it is, I don't buy that.
It's true that the laboratoire d'analyses médicales did something perhaps silly. When I did the fresh blood tests on Saturday, they promised speedy results by tomorrow afternoon, despite the current wave of strikes (a good cause: our pensions).
I said I knew things were difficult, but would be awfully, ever so, etc, if the assured and efficient woman who was the only one left doing much despite the queues, could see her way to letting me have them by 2:30 pm today instead. I'd rather avoid postponing the next two medical appointments (one brought weeks forward by dint of persuasion and the kindness of the specialist).
Instead, we got back from 'The Matrix' to find a message on my ansaphone. "Monsieur," she announced, "we found this (problem I don't fully grasp) with your white blood cells and we thought better to fax them to your cabinet médical de toute urgence, in the hope your doctor sees them rapidly. You may fetch the lot as of first thing Monday."
I haven't. There's no point in rushing to collect something I won't understand until hours hence.
My stalwart and upright friend David ( a good friend to all in "the factory" likely to benefit from the considerable work he and Dmitri have done of late on the union front, though he shrugs it off), commented that what the lab lady did was a little "unethical", in risking scaring the shit out of me for two days before anything could be done, until I assured him that she had evidently realised that I'm not of the panicking kind.
A "worrywart", yes (thanks to Her Imperial Majesty Jen at TS for adding that to my vocabulary all the way from Florida), but too fatalistic or stupid for panic - even during one of the world's worst-ever plane flights in a killer. I'll never forget an Air France pilot for publicly reprimanding a stewardess over the intercom and summoning her "up front" after she informed her human cargo: "Mesdames, Messieurs, I'm so happy to tell you that by the Grace of the Good Lord we shall be landing at Paris-Charles-de-Gaulle in two minutes." Poor lass!
No. It's none of that.
I dreamed of ... Schrödinger's cat. To be clearer, I had a conversation with Erwin Schrödinger (fun poem link) about singularity. Details elude me now, I just know the cat was black, the man made me laugh, told me something which had me reply, "Ah, now I see!" (What was it I saw? Possibly it was meaningful. I don't recall.)
... I dreamed of my bien-aimée, heart-thief. "In all things," she said, "we are complementary." We were in ... the Sahara, nothing special since both of us travel, we weren't thirsting, and that desert I have penetrated (not far, but deep enough) from both ends, the eastern, in Tunisia, the western in Mauritania. Its immensity gives me great hope for the future of the planet despite humanity.
"What I have," she added, "you lack, and what you've got, I haven't." And then a small group of Blue Men arrived, with camels, guns and hidden faces. In real life, I've never seen these Tuaregs, just photos. They were both distant and friendly, neither of us could understand a word of what they were saying until one told us, in French, "We have found the track you lost. We've come to take you there." Fade out, unfortunately...
After that exercise in some kind of wish-fulfilment (I half jest) came the strangest. OK, I know I ranted on about Wagner last week, et alors?.
I was among the men sitting in the shadows round the fire as Siegfried tells the dark, wicked Hagen his story. Weird thing was that though I've not listened to it all for many a year (after once doing so many, many times), all the German came flooding back, the bit about the flawed hero's blood initiation into birdsong:
"In Lied zu dem Wipfel lauscht' ich hinauf;.
Und so weiter ("and so on"), a great bleeding chunk of it all! (Of that particular passage, a confounded Mac Sherlock "translator" makes:
da sass es noch und sang:
'Hei, Siegfried erschlug nun den schlimmen Zwerg!
Jetzt wusst ich ihm noch das herrlischte Weib.
Auf hohen Felsen sie schläft,
Feuer umbrennt ihren Saal;
durchschritt' er die Brunst,
weckt' er die Braut,
Brünnhilde ware dann sein!'"
"In song to the treetop listens I up; there it sat still and sang:
'Hei, Siegfried killed now the bad dwarf! Now wusst I it still the
herrlischte woman. On high rock it sleeps, fires umbrennt their hall;
if it crossed the Brunst, it wakes the bride, Bruennhilde
commodity then its [it is]!'
I've seen worse (and three available Watson translators did no better). It was my happy use of words like "herrlischte" which drove even my elderly ex-Camel Corps two-year German teacher crazy, but scraped me an amazing grade 2 in the O-level exam...*
But "commodity", huh? Rejoice, all ye feminist anti-Wagnerians! His last wife, Cosima, certainly didn't see herself that way. Nor Brünnhilde.
Point is: as other Ring-maniacs know, soon after all that, as a sadly cuckolded Gunther's jaw drops ever further (since he didn't know of a nasty potion), Siegfried reaches his climax, a couple of ravens wing it away like bats out of hell, and Hagen seizes his spear to plunges it straight into the poor lad's back, killing him on the spot. (The picture, not quite how I dreamed it, is from Fritz Lang's 1924 'Siegfried' (thanks to Silent Thrills.)
I woke almost at once to the racket of an early tourist coach, some thunderous chords still splitting my skull, and my first waking thought Gunther's almost whispered echo of Hagen's astounded warriors: "Hagen - was tatest du?" ("What have you done?"
There you go.
A drizzly dreary morning has begun, it's 9:45. I'll get back to this later.
I see this won't be finished yet. I'm eager for the symbol book to arrive (not on dreams, thank you).
But I'll post the first part, in the wake of a healthy dose of reality.
Perhaps a wildcat, wherever she is right now, should be told that I love her and I sorely miss her.
On archetypes, stereotypes too, I'll be baksun. Wasn't that how Winnie the Pooh put it?
*Loosely, I'd venture: "In sorrow, I gazed up into the treetops: still it perched there and sang: 'Hey! Now Siegfried has slain the wicked dwarf! Now I'm aware of a worthy wife for him. On the high rock she sleeps, fire an inferno around the place; he who can break through the blaze to awaken the bride there, Brünnhilde shall be his.'"
Such German as I have is very rusty, one word loses me altogether. Any corrections would be welcome.
1:30:23 PM link