A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.
Bonus dream, with bonus trigger warning for darkness and multilation:
Imperfectly remembered, probably embroidered by the conscious effort to make it sensible. Picture two stolid looking men, dress them in vintage film noir suits and overcoats, put fedoras on their noggins—their twinned character could be adequately described as supporting-dumb-police-detectives. They are standing before a particolored pile of small furs. It is a large pile. The setting would seem to be some kind of warehouse, very dark and decorated in Industrial Desolate. Dirty skylights stain more than illuminate the scene. The little furs are more or less butterfly shaped—they are the tanned skins of women’s pudenda. The two men are picking up and examining these little memento mori, reading aloud, to an unseen audience, cryptic texts written in ink or blood on the skin side, then tossing one grisly scrap aside to pick up another. The two men do not seem horrified or aghast in the least. They behave instead as if they were breaking open Chinese fortune cookies and reciting the nebulous bit of Confucian wisdom inside.
Forgive the static and chaff as we make a garbled transition to Scene Two. A half American, half Japanese woman in her early twenties, dressed all in black, walks down a dark…runway…corridor…alley, in the same sort of Industrial Desolate setting. She’s walking along a strip of concrete that falls off to one side and rises on the other, like a dockside or dam but no water. Abandoned pieces of machinery are scattered along the way. The chewed up pieces of a dismembered corpse are strewn on the path. Glossy white bones protrude. The women weeps, not in anguish but in a kind of poised lamentation as if she stepped out of an Egyptian wall painting of professional mourners at a vizier’s funeral. She cries out: “The bones are singing. Take me to my brother!” Here the dream becomes confused again, and soon I woke up in the still dark bedroom, in a wee hour before dawn.
Note: This is not a recent dream, I noted it down in my journal circa 1992.
Another bonus butterfly:
Bonus butterfly parable:
Once, the Taoist philosopher Master Chuang, dreamt he was a butterfly. He flitted about happily, unaware he was Chuang, knowing himself a butterfly, enjoying the totality of butterfly existence. Then he woke, and was Chuang Tzu. But he no longer knew whether he had been Chuang dreaming he was a butterfly, or whether he was now a butterfly, dreaming he was Chuang.