Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Weird dreams and more Persephone

So we are refinishing the floors upstairs. We're starting with the ones in my writing room. They're all fir, so they're bruised and in any case have been painted over. But a week ago we decided, hell with it, we hate the faded pink carpet upstairs, it has to go.

Since then, every night, I have dreamt of walking toward an antique armoire - not one I own or have seen - and every night it terrifies me and I wake up. I don't know whether, in the dream, I'm in this house or some other house, or if I'm even me. The only thing I'm sure of is that the sanding C is doing is uncovering more than our old fir floor.

In other news, the Persephone/Hades story continues to entrance. Maybe I need a break from FMT, or maybe there's no heart to that story after all - which seems like a strange thing to say when it's finaling in competitions.

But the other day, I was thinking about Hades, and death, and how death - fallow periods, winter, dry spells - are necessary. Rest is necessary. We may not like it when it happens, but it allows us to repair and regenerate.

Not to get all woo-woo on you. Remember being told to go to bed when you were about 8 or 9? How awful it was, how you fought, and how you probably laid away for all of 10 minutes before dropping like a stone into deep black sleep? Sleep that fed you.

That's the heart of Hades. Misunderstood. Wielding great power, sometimes badly. Sometimes maybe even letting it get away from him a little bit. He fights being corrupted by it. And sometimes he hates it. His older brother uses fear to control people; Hades doesn't want to be like that. And yet, he has this power and sometimes when he sees someone in pain, he uses it, even though it's not their time to go.

And then there's Persephone, sick of being all goodness and light all the time. Drawn to his dark side, but really only playing with it, until she finds herself needing to take a rest. Needing her old life to die so her new one can start. And maybe watching her mother cling to her old life, not letting it die.

I don't know quite how to write it yet or what it'll contain, but at least I know what the story's about. I have a - God, sit down, this is going to sound really pretentious - but a deep belief in the purpose of deaths, large and small, and that's something I can bring to this story.

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