The Hydric Violin
Sep. 1st, 2011 11:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cremainsIn this dream, I was the "French ambassador to London" (I looked like a police inspector from the age of Victor Hugo). I had a sparse wooden desk in an enoromous, clean but abandoned train station. There were giant windows and it was always, always raining.
There were ripples in my desk and what appeared to be tunnels under them; same thing with the worn-out runner carper going from my desk to nowhere in the middle of the room. It was understood that these were infested with mice.
Lestrade, a detective from the Sherlock Holmes stories, arrived with another officer. They inspected the tunnels and told me they would have to play "the hydric violin" to flush them out with water and kill the mice. The hydric violin turned out not to be a lot like a violin but rather a grotesque and complicated brass pump.
The perspective of the dream suddenly changed and I was a mouse in the tunnel, watching as their huge faces peered in through the hole before being replaced at last with the violin pump.
*
An email from my Esteemed Teacher arrived recently; he wrote to say he finally picked up my test on hilkhoth Shabbath and marked the first ten on the bus. He said "So far you are doing okay." Since "okay" is code for "You are mentally deficient," or my greatest fear, "Almost as good as the boys' tests," this threw me into a depression. But I was almost there anyway so this is probably just my excuse.
The strange exhaustion sickness continues.
There were ripples in my desk and what appeared to be tunnels under them; same thing with the worn-out runner carper going from my desk to nowhere in the middle of the room. It was understood that these were infested with mice.
Lestrade, a detective from the Sherlock Holmes stories, arrived with another officer. They inspected the tunnels and told me they would have to play "the hydric violin" to flush them out with water and kill the mice. The hydric violin turned out not to be a lot like a violin but rather a grotesque and complicated brass pump.
The perspective of the dream suddenly changed and I was a mouse in the tunnel, watching as their huge faces peered in through the hole before being replaced at last with the violin pump.
*
An email from my Esteemed Teacher arrived recently; he wrote to say he finally picked up my test on hilkhoth Shabbath and marked the first ten on the bus. He said "So far you are doing okay." Since "okay" is code for "You are mentally deficient," or my greatest fear, "Almost as good as the boys' tests," this threw me into a depression. But I was almost there anyway so this is probably just my excuse.
The strange exhaustion sickness continues.
