Thursday Morning

Last night I dreamt about two beautiful women working in a hotel, one was in her 30s, pale, with black hair tightly drawn into a bun, the other was in her early twenties with messy, short red hair. They were in the lobby reading a letter from a mutual friend. The mutual friend, a lesbian who became a nun, was talking about going to a girl's house after noticing she had a garden where she grew organic produce despite the fact that it was the 1940s. The future nun went inside to inquire about the garden from the shy young woman who couldn't respond before her grandfather came into the room looking angry and as though he'd been woken from a nap. He wore loose brown pants with suspenders, a white shirt, and had a thin black beard. He had big round eyes and looked slightly like a deceased grandfather of mine. He told the future nun that the way to marry his daughter was to bring a broom. The nun told him that she was just curious about the garden at which point he gestured at a vast collection of cassette tapes on shelves covering all four walls of an adjacent room, explaining that the best thing to listen to while gardening was the True Romance soundtrack.

The nun segued into a story about how Tom Hiddleston tried seduce her once when she had to stay in his apartment during a wedding. He wasn't an actor at the time but he was trying to get in good with actors' circles. So he had built a wall in the centre of his apartment on the advice of a prominent actor and it had left him with very little room. He also had a pastel blue plastic toy car he kept on the mantel on the advice of the same actor. He was very furious with the nun when she refused his advances.

When the two women in the hotel finished reading the letter, the redhead noticed it had come from Nunnery 666. "You'd think they'd skip that one," said the redhead. "Like hotels skip the thirteenth floor."

"We have a thirteenth floor," said the woman with black hair who seemed to be someone in authority. She insisted on taking the redhead up to the thirteenth floor to prove it. There didn't seem to be anything unusual up there, though it was deserted. The woman with black hair was naked at this point for some reason and for some reason a credit card was required to take the elevator back down. The redhead tried hers first but did something wrong and nothing happened. The woman with black hair angrily took the card away from her and swiped it. A recorded voice asked a question in a language I didn't understand. The woman with black hair was angry and refused to answer, saying, "That's racist!" A red arm, like a human arm without skin so you could see stringy red muscles, grew out of the door, grabbed her, and strangled her. The redhead carefully took the credit card back and said, "Brian Austin Green!" and the elevator doors opened.

Twitter Sonnet #849

Collected eye rotary lashes point
Together past the figure sleeping late
And standing to, a warping bar or joint
Enclosed the last suspicious second mate.
The bo'sun scrawled unseen a check athwart
The mizzen shroud, a black remittance writ
As ignorant the lobster cooked retort
To hammocks nicked by sick and glassy wit.
The leaden bread encamped in bowels too turned
To hinder water's trespass in the hold
Where rusted bilboes break the skin was burned
By tails of tar entrails rotund and cold.
A broken glassy wave o'erturned the keel.
A calm reclaimed the hand and made it real.