At dawn she lay with her profile at that angle 
Which, when she sleeps, seems the carved face of an angel. 
Her hair a harp, the hand of a breeze follows 
And plays, against the white cloud of the pillows. 
Then, in a flush of rose, she woke and her eyes that opened 
Swam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned. 
From her dew of lips, the drop of one word 
Fell like the first of fountains: murmured 
‘Darling’, upon my ears the song of the first bird. 
‘My dream becomes my dream,’ she said, ‘come true. 
I waken from you to my dream of you.’ 
Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assume 
The audacity of her sleep. Our dreams 
Poured into each other’s arms, like streams.

Stephen Spender

A Barred Owl

The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

—Richard Wilbur (apologies)

World-building inspiration for Savi and Nar… National Geographic Photo Contest 2018. A cenote is a sacred sinkhole in the Yucatán Peninsula. The Chixulub crater. The ‘stone forests’ of the South China Karst (link). Lake Hutt is a pink lake in Western Australia. Southern Min dialects. Written classical Chinese, and how it differs as a lingua franca viz. Latin in Europe. Grimm’s law and pronunciation shifts in the Indo-European languages. Stepwells in western India for accessing groundwater in drought.

“What is my responsibility as a creator to the thing I create?”

Whether that’s a child, or a book, or an album, or a painting. I think if I create something, it’s my responsibility to love it and give it its best chance in the world. And if I don’t do that, not only am I betraying it, but I’m betraying my gift. And […] if you begin to hate the thing you’ve created, it can indeed become monstrous.

—A.S. Peterson, on his play Frankenstein (interview)

BEN: … so then [the radio] won’t mute while it scans between stations.
BOB: OK. Cause that’s where they live, right?
BEN: Um. No, you just want that constant static noise.
BOB: Right. The noise, that’s where they live.
BEN: They don’t “live” anywhere, dude. They’re ghosts.

EMILY: I didn’t hear a voice at all.
BEN: I guess it doesn’t matter – the ghost voices don’t really come out until you play back the recording later.
BOB: They only exist in recordings, like a copy without an original. A mirror reflecting something that isn’t in the room.
EMILY: Like the mounds.
BOB: The burial mounds here in town? You think they’re haunted?
EMILY: No … or, sure, probably. But I meant they’re like the reflection. The people who made them lived hundreds of years ago. That whole society is long gone, and now we just have these lingering echoes, without any trace of context.
BEN: Yeah, that is kind of eerie.
BOB: So the ghosts speak and we can’t hear it, but the tape recorder can hear it? Is that right?
BEN: I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s more like the recording itself is a ghost. Like, that’s what ghosts are. Recordings of events that didn’t happen. When something keeps leaving new marks even after it’s gone. False memories.

EMILY: A ghost is just an absent person, whether they’re dead or not.

Un Pueblo de Nada (Episode 4.5), Kentucky Route Zero 💬

Little soul, little wanderer, little charmer
Body’s guest and companion
To what places will you set out for now?
To darkling, cold, and gloomy ones
And you won’t make your usual jokes

💬 the epitaph of Emperor Hadrian,
(via the Emperors of Rome podcast)