The dream that I woke up to this morning was proving to be very interesting just before the alarm went off. There was a Bolshoy dance troupe in Russia playing at a massive and historic theatre.* The footlights on the stage were nearly as old as the theatre, which prided itself on the relative antiquation of the bulbs that had seen them through generations of Russian performing arts. This certain Bolshoy dance troupe had just re-emerged under the new government after many years underground, and we were there to document the moment. The ballet was amazing and had been written especially for this performance. At one point during the show, a male dancer rushed to the front of the stage, and his pointed pose caused his right toe to crash through one of the footlights, setting his foot ablaze. It was chaos, with theatre-goers frenzying to the exits. The fire was quickly suffocated by a small blanket, and we watched the defeated dancers drift offstage.
We came back to the theatre the next day with interviewees, as the story had become a much more interesting one with the toe in the footlight incident. One of our prospects was a young man famous for his wit and outlandish behaviour. He was fucking hot. He was dark-featured and fiery-eyed. He arrived late for the interview and explained that he had spent the previous night after the performance at a blood ritual on the university campus and had overslept. I was just about to begin asking him more about the blood ritual, because screw a broken footlight when there are blood rituals to talk about, when my alarm went off.
Damn. I really wanted to sleep with him.
*I wrote this while the dream was still fresh in my mind this morning and had no idea if “Bolshoy” was even a real word, so I looked it up. The subconscious is a wondrous thing. If I could only be this smart when I’m conscious.
Oh, the things one can become known for.
I designed another template. This one was made for bluewicked. I think this was the most fun I’ve had designing a graphic.
– Boris Leonidovich Pasternak, 1915
I fed a flock
of keys from my hand
To the beating of wings, splashing and screeching.
I stretched out my hands, I stood on my toes,
My sleeve crept up, night rubbed my elbow.
And it was dark. And there was a pond
And waves. And the screaming, black, strong beaks of the birds
Of the breed I-love-you would sooner murder, it seems, than die.
And there was a pond. And it was dark.
The vessels of midnight tar blazed.
And a wave bit into the bottom
Of the boat. And the birds squabbled at my elbow.
And night splashed in the throats of the weirs.
It seemed that the fledgling had not yet been fed,
And the mother birds would sooner murder than let
The trills in the screaming, twisted throat die.