I took the train home from school yesterday evening and a storm followed me... now it is very rainy and cold and windy outside, and I am wearing clothes that I haven't worn in a long time and actual white socks. I just took a shower and my hair is still wet.
Last night I had a really Lynchian dream. The star of it, in fact, wasn't me... it was this girl I met at school I don't really like. At least that's who I thought it was, for I could only see her shoulder-length, wavy, ice-blonde hair. She was following something, or had collected clues that led her to this certain place: a large, large room, with many sunken-in rooms on the right-hand side each covered by a thick, red curtain. As she walked slowly forward, the curtains, one by one, lifted and behind them were mid-sized movie screens, each showing a black and white and fuzzy picture of two shoes. Each screen showed a different pair of shoes, but they were all old-fashioned shoes, as if from the early 20th century. To add to this, they were all moving. Invisible legs and invisible feet inclined the shoes and made them dance next to each other. Above this silent charade I remember hearing a terrible howling noise. The girl screamed and ran but the many curtained rooms never ended...
It was quite scary. And I distinctly remember it happening after I got up to turn off my computer then got back in bed. Most of the dreams I remember always take place after I get up then go back to sleep. Anyway.
I've chosen to devote today to listening to Agalloch's The White EP, which is utterly and perfectly gorgeous. This is one of my favorite songs, "Birch White," but they are all so beautiful. I posted it on the first day of November (or was it December?) of last year. It is basically their attempt at soft neo-folk, and while listening I think of Tenhi and Sol Invictus, but with a colder and more piercing sound. The basic atmosphere of the album is very nature-based and spiritual, often using quotes from the 1973 film The Wicker Man to further their point. Agalloch's music strengthens the statement - "God is dead." At least, the god of man.
"'Now, those children out there, they're jumping through the flames in the hope that the god of the fire will make them fruitful. Really, you can't blame them. After all, what girl would not prefer the child of a god to that of some acne-scarred artisan?'
'And, and you encourage them in this?'
'Actively! It's most important to teach new generation born of Summerisle be made aware that here the old gods aren't dead.'
'And what of the true God? To whose glory churches and monasteries have been built on these islands for generations past? Now, Sir, what of Him?'
'Oh, He's dead. He can't complain. He had his chance and, in modern parlance, blew it.'"
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Currently reading:
Franz Kafka - The Trial, translated by Breon Mitchell.
It is one of those books (common to translated books) that's so very plainly written, even though the mysteries and puzzles contained in Kafka's wild and twisted imagination are truly breathtaking, that I am excited when I see a pretty word, like "snow" or "cloud." I love words.
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