May 10, 2013

You cannot microwave ants.

Woke from fabulous, Aeneid-related dreams. In the first part, I was some sort of adversary of Fate (an erring priest or something, dressed in purple), who found himself on the losing side, and had to explain to the victorious proto-Roman authorities why I was not REALLY culpable for the death of Aeneas. In the second part, I had morphed into a sort of crime scene investigator, part of a crew charged with the task of sifting through the ruins and relicts of several battles to see what actually had happened. This was a decade or so after the events of the Aeneid, which seemed to have happened in modern times, replete with modern forensic procedures. Too much NCIS before bed.

Lightning coffee with Marco, always exhausted, always on the fly. Each new meeting follows some financial disaster. It's hard to know how someone can earn such bad karma with the gods of solvency.

Early dinner at Boucheron with Jon and Dalton and Sara.  Excellent food and excellent company.