Lying in bed this morning in the hypnopompic zone, mostly awake. Watching my floaters rising and falling against the backdrop of the venetian blinds. They strum it, tripping over the impediment of the slats—a lazy shuttling; an accidental watery ballet. And an unexpectedly artful collaboration between the optical flaw—the floater swimming in the eye—and the visual field. The warp and the woof.
The other day I emailed my sister: "I am hoping to re-animate my blog this weekend, perhaps with a bolt of lightning and stolen body parts." (My previous metaphor for this task—the quaint-sounding "renascence"—is in an unfinished post that's stuck in draft mode, like the never-hatched eggs of an abandoned house sparrow nest that I saved for a possible show-and-tell for Matthew about a dozen years ago and that sits to this day in a shoebox in my closet. Unhatched metaphors are much more common around these parts than an un-metaphored Hatch. But maybe I'll incubate it yet.)
Anyway, while I lay there watching the floaters strum the blinds, I thought about Frankenstein, both the doctor and the monster who's taken on his name—a cockeyed, run-amok, hairy-palms name, unlike the solemn "Golem," its Czech cousin, who sounds like he could have had a bar mitzvah. (I didn't have one, unlike Matt, who did us all proud, reading in Hebrew abut how God killed Aaron's sons with a zap of divine wrath for daring to make their own unauthorized altar fire [the incense that incensed?], which they were doing for Him! [Look, Lord, I made a ashtray for you... Arrrrrrrrrgh!])
Where was I? Lying in bed thinking about Frankenstein's blog, if he kept one. The doctor would have, and in Mary Shelley's novel, even the monster was eloquent enough to have had one: "Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?"
Well, not that formal for my re-animated blog. Somewhere between Mary Shelley and Puttin' on the Ritz in "Young Frankenstein," before the footlight blows.
Warp: Ever notice that floaters can interact with venetian blinds in a kind of strumming, shuttling effect?
Warp: Here's the real question: will I devote an hour of my day to writing my warped observations? Will I make this hulk of spare parts and random connections get up and dance?
Woof: "Woof! Woof!" (Translation: We'll see.)