|
|
|
|||
|
Blog Spots: Et al. Gwentown My Pages
Home (Frames)
l
i a
f
b |
Day 334
Neck still hurts. No help yet from the mainland. Dreamed last night I was a prostitute, paid to have sleazy sex with a major asshole. Hot. posted 11.30.2001 @ 7:37am
Arghhhhhh My. Neck. Hurts. And my pillows suck, and there's no good position to sleep in, and I don't want to go to work today, and I'm going to scream now. Many dreams. Can't remember them in detail. Sad, because I had a Buffy/Spike dream. I remember the plot in sketchy outlines, and some stray scenes. Spike was wooing Buffy: he drew her down the driveway outside her house in the evening. At the end of the driveway, he knelt in a strewn heap of dark-red rose petals to take her hand. I remember the rich, heavy feel of the rose petals as I picked them up and let them fall through my fingers. Buffy, of course, was not interested. Nonetheless, they ended up in bed together, sleeping side by side, in a room with no front wall--open to the street. Spike dreamed of a demoness he'd once known, who appeared in his precognitive dream to let him know she'd be visiting again. She was kind of like Glory, but had a different name I've forgotten. She said very precise things--she had a little speech--and this I've also forgotten. As mentioned, I've lost a lot of the details of this dream: if the dream is a dinosaur, full-fleshed and sweeping through your dreaming mind, the recollection of the dream is just a pile of old, scattered bones that you have to articulate together. Insufficient bones. But anyway: Buffy had woken up and was in the street. I think the demon wench came back, and they may have fought. Buffy ended up half-possessed. Just half. Half her hair was ink-black, in a really crude fashion, and I think she may have had one wacky demon eye. Spike, alarmed, went in search of help. He entered the ranch style suburban house across the street, where the Scooby gang was gathered, and confided in Willow, et al. My point of view switches; I am Willow, on the couch, sitting next to Spike and gazing across the room through the open front door at the street, where Buffy stands. I am very aware of Spike next to me: the solidity of him, the crunch and scent of his leather coat. His arm is around me, perhaps, and I think he is smoking. He is, if nothing else, making himself comfortable, but he is also uneasy about being there. We are also uneasy about this. Awkwardness. What I regret most is losing moments like this--having them grow fuzzy and fade--because this is one of those ineffable transmissions from the subconscious that brings dreams into high definition: a melange of physical and emotional sensations that makes dreams feel not just real, but hyperreal. The couch, the quality of light, the long view through the open door to the street outside, the proximity and physicality of Spike's presence, the mix of ambivalent emotions emanating from around the room--me, Spike, Giles, Xander. After a bit, Half-Demon Buffy comes in and looks us over, accompanied by some misty figures. She starts to go upstairs, perhaps to change her clothes. As she hits the stairs, I say snarkily, "You may want to change your hairstyle before you come back." And that's all I recall. There was an earlier dream where I was Rebecca Pidgeon, sitting in a diner bar and chatting with some guy while I ordered lunch. But though this could have been interesting if, again, I'd remembered more, I didn't, and so it isn't. Likewise, I had a flying dream the other night; now that is exciting to me, because I rarely have them much anymore. The frequency dropped as I grew out of childhood. Next time I will have to force myself to get out of bed and write it down. Now that I've distracted myself somewhat from the pain, I have to reiterate: I don't want to go to work today. Arghhhhh. More simply and to the point: I don't want this pain in my neck! I am a big pile of whimper. I leave you now. posted 11.29.2001 @ 7:25am
Five Oceans of Pain I woke up drowning. Never again will I let a woman walk on my back. Well, maybe I will. I don't think it was actually the back-walking that mangled me, but the subsequent hands-on massage work. In truth, I can't decide if this is Necessary Pain that will fix the Bad Pain I already had, or just an extra helping of Bad Pain that I didn't need. Maybe another twenty-four hours will tell. Right now, it all feels like Bad Pain. I came home from work early, and now have plans to do nothing, and do it supine, drugged, and drunk. Food sounds good, but cooking sounds bad. Drinking, on the other hand, sounds manageable. Don't talk to me about my drinking, don't talk to me about the plight of the American Indian, because it's at times like this I realize what a fine service the purveyors of fermented mash perform for society. posted 11.28.2001 @ 4:40pm
The Laughing Buddha So, my neck's been hurting. Last night I medicated myself and rolled to sleep early: pain, pain, pain. This morning, I felt fine, and I was in my office chair by six-thirty; but as the day progressed, pain returned. I left work as early as I'd arrived, and desperately sought the closest massage therapist--I remembered there was one near the liquor store. Liquor. Massage. Winning combination. The office building was interesting--one of those low-rent, no-frills buildings: blindingly plain white halls, white anonymous doors, and small offices inhabited by oddball and counter-culture ventures, including the Seattle Gay News. The door of the massage therapist's office was open, though. Pure luck: I caught her no more than minutes after her arrival; she'd come in to tidy up her office for an appointment about forty minutes off. She was a lithe, shrewd-eyed older woman with a vaguely Scandinavian accent; in other words, the Very Embodiment of Masseuse. She was going to make me come back with a formal appointment, but once she'd looked me over--and ascertained I'd pay the forty bucks--she allowed me this abrupt session. First, though, she made me wait in the corridor for ten minutes with a wicker chair that she pulled from her foyer, and a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves, while she bustled madly inside (bumps, sounds of vacuuming, la la la), and in that time the office was transformed from a dubious, box-stacked hole in the wall to a hobbity den with all the trappings of comfort: incense, comfy chairs, and the tinkling of imaginary fountains. Once I'd laid myself out like moaning beef on her table, she asked if she could walk on my back. Walk on my back? Sure, lady. Go for it. And she hopped up and did magical things to my spine with her breathtakingly strong feet. Then she hopped back off and ran a mysterious, buzzing gadget all over my body; and then she dug in with her powerful fingers for more traditional, and aggressive maneuvers. ("Because we don't haf much time...") She asked me all sorts of questions during the session, some of which--for want of breath--I had trouble answering. I felt like I was talking to my mother, except my mother had never been so interested in the details of my life, never asked such dazzlingly specific questions, like a friendly police officer. I answered everything the masseuse asked, dazed and unable to think of a good reason why I shouldn't. Her massage oil could have been a truth serum. It was weird.
Me: Well, yeah. I had an appointment set up, but then my car was broken into-- Masseuse: Broken into! How awful. This was expensive then? Me: Yeah. They left the key in the lock, and I had to get the ignition replaced. Masseuse: And your insurance didn't pay for it--oh, you haf a deductible. Me (mumbling): Yeah, deductible. Masseuse: This is expensive, hah. How much does this cost? Me: Oh, three hundred dollars.... Masseuse: Three hundred! That's a lot. And your insurance didn't pay...oh, the deductible. (Tut-tut.) Me: Well, yeah, but part of that was Triple-A, because I had to renew it. It cost almost a hundred dollars. I thought maybe they could fix the lock. Masseuse: Triple-A? They could not fix it? Me: No. Masseuse: Oh, and Triple-A, the renewal, this is a lot because it was retroactive--oh, or no, it's just that it's costing almost the hundred. Me: Yeah. I was hoping they could fix the lock, but they couldn't. Masseuse: So then the garage, they came out? Massage, I say. Go get a massage. posted 11.27.2001 @ 5:20pm by Anna, wondering pensively today whether she sounds like Jean Teasdale
Fruit and Elevators Dreamed last night that I took an elevator. Two guys crowded in after me. It was a tiny elevator, with a toilet. Due to the size, one guy had to sit down on the toilet seat; he was facing me sideways. The other guy leaned back against the elevator door facing me. They were flirting rather aggressively, as strange guys do, and I flirted defensively back. We reached their floor, and I realized we'd gone one stop past my own--you were supposed to hit the floor button not as you got on, but just before you got off, to make the elevator stop. They'd been standing in front of the buttons. I got out after them, determined to find another elevator to take me back down a floor. I lost track of them and wandered. In the dreamscape, this place of floors was half inside, half outisde--and again, sort of a giant upscale mall. It was a Sunday, and it was England. There were many British people wandering around, even though many of the shops and banks were closed. I remember a queue in front of a newstand, with most of the people cheerfully lined up waiting. However, as I passed, it was one man's turn, and he was red-faced and furious at having to wait so long--he shoved up to the front of the line and made rude noises. The others tut-tutted in a disapproving way, and I thought how uncommon that type of rudeness was among the British. I sought an elevator with dreamy frustration. I saw golden elevator doors down a hall and headed for them, but that corridor was closed--it being Sunday--and a few girlish guards who'd been passing caught sight of me, evinced startlement ("Hey!") and told me I couldn't go down there. I came back out of the off-limits corridor, asked for directions to an elevator, and was pointed to one. I got in, but it only had three buttons; I needed to reach the sixth floor. I got off, I got on again, got off, found yet another elevator. Broken part of the dream--I can't remember whether I successfully elevatored anywhere. I don't think so, because the next thing I recall, I was still trying to get up a floor. I was in an abandoned industrial landscape--heaps of junk, a claustrophobic grey sky, enclosed and empty stretches of green grass, overpasses, and a set of train tracks winding through it all. I climbed up to the train tracks. I heard the wail of an approaching train and wanted to put pennies on the tracks, to flatten them. But I was afraid the rails might be electrified, so I didn't. Instead, I crawled up and over a huge pile of mutant fruit, thinking it would take me up a floor in lieu of an elevator. This was a hill of fruit and vegetables, the elements themselves enormous and strange, such as eggplants the size of people; all of it packed very closely under the cool, overcast sky. Not rotten per se, but soft and old, junked compost. Break in the narrative again--this dream has cracked apart into pieces like an ice floe on a lake, and all the pieces are floating away from each other. I remember finding myself in a basement--yeah, still searching for an elevator. A man was down there, perhaps mocking me, definitely following me. He was behind me, coming after me unhurriedly. I searched for some way out. I was searching now not just for an elevator but, more broadly, for something that would serve as an elavator, by force. I found then a plain chute, and I pulled a piece of dangling cord and I let it--or made it--carry me up into the narrow darkness. I didn't know what it was exactly that I'd found, or where it would take me, or if it even ultimately went anywhere; I could feel the passage getting closer and darker around me as I rose. I forced my way up and at the end was a trapdoor into a real elevator shaft, into which I climbed. Here, more fortunately, there was a ladder along the side. I climbed the ladder. Not really sure how that turned out. But I think I did eventually get to the movies. posted 11.27.2001 @ 5:53am
Whatever I ended up staying latish at work because we had an all hands meeting, which means everyone in customer service gathers and listens to well-paid vice presidents give us trippy spin in response to straightforward questions. Whatever, dudes. They had some pretty blunt remarks for us this time, though. I didn't know whether to admire them or gun them down. (Kidding, people. Sheesh.) The audience was filled with people like me, ex-slackers grudgingly grateful for their jobs and unwilling to dip their toes into the chilly job market. Besides, we could see our dot-com stock options floating out there--half in, half out of the water. We're afraid that if we cause any ripples, they'll sink. Semi-related to work, the left side of my neck has been killing me for about two days. I can't even remember exactly when it started, but it's that sort of dull miserable ache which is attributable to bad posture, bad pillows, bad chairs, bad mojo. It makes me grumpy--but then, so much does. It's eight o'clock at night and it feels like midnight: my day is over. I'm going to curl up in the bedding soon with Harry Potter and hard liquor, if I can stay the fuck awake for a few hours. CD of the day: Sweet in the Pants by the Meat Purveyors: fast, loony punk-bluegrass with some songs you shouldn't miss. Thought of the day: It's my birthday in January and I'm starting to reach that point where I forget which birthday. This tactic takes careful, half-amnesiac honing. posted 11.26.2001 @ 8:52pm
School Sucks I dreamed that I'd come home from somewhere--trip? And it was two p.m. in the afternoon and I couldn't have had more than two classes left on my schedule, but my mother told me I had to go in, because if I missed any more school the law said I'd have to do thirty days of homework; that is to say, homework for all classes, every day. Disgusted, I began to get ready. I was in a terrible hurry, and I kept fumbling stuff, accidentally trying to put on two pairs of pants, and finding myself wearing a big jacket when it was a hot day. I wound up wearing a pair of blue pants, and some kind of hip top (I only wear hip clothes in dreams) and then dug around for earrings, before dropping them on the floor into a pile of others. I plucked them back out and put them in: red, round earrings. I was wearing a lot of red, and looked pretty goofy, especially with this toothy headband in my long hair, and a pair of headphones on over it, which for some reason made my hair as big and messy as Cher's. I quarreled with my mother again about why I had to go to school--I'd already forgotten. She reminded me, and also said that I could go in late because a "mental" appointment was an acceptable excuse for the time I'd already missed. On this note, I hurried off. I arrived late for class. My teacher had been walking up through the classroom, taking role and asking someone who the treasurer of their club was--it was me, but no one said my name, he just intuited it with a little sound of disgust. I came in and sat down. My teacher gave me the hairy eyeball. Then I was in another classroom. I asked to get a glass of water, as if I'd been sick. The teacher, a nice lesbian, was not impressed. I moped off. In my absence, a kid came by with a flyer about some new wonder drug. There'd also been a suicide in the school, or something. The teacher, instead of indulging her usual suspicious contempt for my juvenile delinquency, mused that I might be suffering from apathy. When I returned, I was asked to watch a movie, some kind of after-school special, as a rehabilitative punishment, which was supposed to bring me out of my depression. I don't remember what it was about, but we sat around and watched it, and I did laugh. And then the nice lesbian, who now owned a construction site, had to fire some guy because he got me pregnant. I remember that he backed off down a set of high steps toward the street, and everyone was chuckling in a resigned sort of way, and then some guys hanging from a load of girders (which was in turn dangling from a crane) swept him off. There were more little details, but I don't want to take the time remembering them or writing them because I may be late for work. And the dream left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I hadn't had any serious plans to miss work today, but suddenly I feel resentful and guilty. I also wouldn't mind some more time off.... posted 11.26.2001 @ 8:56am
Footloose and Segue Free In looking back at my "Turkey Sandwiches" entry of yesterday I see that not one of the paragraphs followed logically on another. I'm also not entirely sure what sort of theme I was going for with that title--just a generic, post-Thanksgiving conceit, I guess. Today was--no, is--a Sunday. Not over yet, but having that Sundayish work-on-Monday feel to it. A few extra days off can so quickly spoil me, especially when I reimmerse myself in fannish things. I have been reading the third Harry Potter book this weekend, along with some Harry Potter slash. I find it hard even to string those three words together in public. It's been a long time since I've had a slash fandom that made me feel slightly dirty. I hadn't realized how much I missed that. Misplaced pedo paranoia, edged by a more worrisome than usual sense of copyright violation, gives this fandom a furtive flavor. It's true that I've always had the "I will not speak of this to mudanes" reflex about slash in general. (And, hey, can we call them muggles now?) But some of my deeper, more specific kinks dare not speak their names even to slashers, and will crawl under the carpet when company comes. (Though is a kink truly a kink if you can only bear it in the context of good writing? Some things turn sick on a dime--if it's good, it's very very good, and if it's bad it's fucking appalling, dear GOD, get it away from me, I have to go wash my skin off now, good-BYE!) But fantasy is no more than that for me--I mean, let's face it, real kids (and by "kids" I'm not even thinking of moppets but of thirteen-to-fifteen year olds) are gross: zitty, oblivious, amoral monsters in trendy clothes. I find them unbearable in every sense of the word, and felt not a flicker of heat from (or between) the young actors in the HP movie. The power of fantasy is, I think, that it taps me back into the charge of my own history, in fictional dress; and even then, I never pass the barrier of pubescence. That's when my erotic identity blossomed, after all. Or so my (self-censoring?) memory claims. I was a bitch in mental heat at thirteen, and terribly lonely. Whenever I ride that younger-older dynamic, I feel exactly what I did then: a desire to be protected, cosseted, prized. I'm the eternal kid--amorphous, insecure, needy--not the adult. But enough of that self-apologetic babble. I've only read a few HP stories, but I'd recommend Telanu's series, which begins with "A Most Disquieting Tea," and JayKay's story, "To Wise to Woo Peaceably," both on the HP Slash Archive: http://www.geocities.com/slashpotter/psa.html. You'll suss my pairing quickly enough. It's all Alan Rickman's fault. Every other pairing seems pallid when I contemplate his slithery visage. And if you don't like it, just don't go there. Don't come whining to me. Actually, before you do come whining to me--I should mention that the GeoCities host page keeps maxing out its quota of site hits, so if you don't get through once, just visit again later. And now I'm off to read Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. posted 11.25.2001 @ 6:28pm
Turkey Sandwiches I'm fascinated by how much other people can fit into their webpages; all the cool designs people come up with. Shrift's blog is particularly pretty, and also has a really cool check-box option where you can set the links to open up in other windows, or the same. I'd make a mental note to steal that, but I'm already in frames, so I code my links individually. It's very neat, though. I could do a lot more with my pages, but I'm handicapped by a relatively cheap computer, lack of image software, etc. I can hard code, but I use Composer for most of the grunt-work, and the program's pretty shitty because of all the default formatting. Like, every time I edit this page, when saving the final version, I have to enter Wordpad to reset the spacing between two tables and adjust blocks of text that the program resets without my consent. I tried to do this version of my site once which looked like frames, but wasn't--the pages were designed without margins, and all the elements hung together nicely, but when I realized how many tweaks I'd have to make every single time I saved the page, I said to hell with it. Composer is crap, but I haven't seen a WYSIWYG editor yet that didn't have at least one annoying default. If anyone has a cheap recommendation, let me know. For some reason, I'm seeing this really distracting hallucination to the left of my visual field right now--sort of like a multicolored, origami snake that fluctuates electrically. No, I'm not dropping acid. And it's annoying. I caught an old episode of the X-Files during FX's marathon. My god, but Mulder was edible. It was "Bad Blood" and he was standing there at the end in muddy clothes, with his long beautiful bod and this disgusted, ineffably Mulderish expression. What a lush, perfect specimen of man. I've let myself forget, because the train-wreck that is the X-Files is just so fucking painful. Man, if they'd only ended it with season five, then at least the possibility would exist that I might revisit the fandom someday and find it a finite, manageable universe. Okay, this fucking technicolor snake is officially driving me INSANE. Wait... now it's floating above my eyebrow... not too bad. Bearable. Nonetheless, I think I need a drink. Biology is weird. posted 11.23.2001 @ 11:24pm
Back to the Grind What I used to hate about holidays, when I was in college, was how I suddenly had all this free time and every place I wanted to hang out was closed; particularly, coffee shops. It's just wrong. So it's the day after Thanksgiving, and the Starbucks here in Seattle are open again, fueling the masses who are out launching into frantic sales shopping, or so I imagine because I'm not getting within a mile of a mega-mall today to confirm that. I was glad I stopped for coffee on the way into work this morning, because when I got there, I found out that the cafeteria and java stand in our building were both closed. We work in a building of our own, up on a hill overlooking the city, on the edge of a residential neighborhood, and foraging for lunch outside its walls is a challenge. As our team prepared for a morning conference call, I pointed out to my manager that the company clearly didn't want us at work today that badly, if they weren't going to feed us. Managerial bonus points to him for agreeing with me; after the concall, he cut us loose. I spent a little time putzing around at my desk, so I wouldn't look like a total slacker weasel, then I ran. Today, my plan is to continue yesterday's fannish lazing and, among other things, finish Martha and Lemon Drop's newish story, "Distant Journey, Unknown Lands." Reading this got me thinking--I did a little self-check on the state of my fannish affairs. And I realized that I don't know where I stand anymore. I always considered myself more or less serially monogamous: Kirk/Spock (1982-97), Mulder/Anyone (1997-99), Jim/Blair (1999-2001). And then I really got a foothold on the Internet, and my interests gradually began accumulating. Instead of moving from fandom to fandom, cutting loose as I moved on, I'm now tugged every which way by a variety of fannish thralls, and I can't decide where to spend my weekends. I have become Fan Slut. They're all different, these fandom pairings. Jim and Blair have become these two guys who live comfortably down the hall; Jim coming out in the hallway each morning to grab his paper off the mat; Blair passing me in the hall with a cheery hello. Their relationship is so well established in my mind, so plausible and solid, that I often forget it isn't canon. Much as I hate to say it, they're at some risk for becoming my favorite Uncle Jim and his partner Blair, unsexy and domesticated, two guys who know a lot about Thai food and are thinking of buying a Saturn. Elsewhere, Jack and Daniel are off on missions, doing their thing, apparently so busy that they don't have time for me. Fraser and Ray are just a pair of great guys I visit in Chicago once in a while, Lex and Clark are a couple of pretty toys--er, boys. And Buffy and Spike are blowing various fuses in my head, but I don't want to write about them. I guess the thing is, I generally used to define my fannish obsessions through writing, and now I don't do this so much any more. It confuses me. Sigh. Anyway, I updated my Sentinel rec page yesterday for the first time in seven months. As I browsed through the archive, I noticed plenty of stories I hadn't yet read, and it was like looking at a burdened buffet table--maybe a bit too much food laid out there, some of it not as good as it first appeared. I remember when I just hoovered my way down the table from end to end--I used to visit the archive a dozen times a day, to see if a new story had been posted. I remember when I used to fantasize, for godssake. I guess this is just a cyclical thing, though--normal waxing and waning, drift and shift. posted 11.23.2001 @ 3:50pm
Watch This Space You can tell I'm restless when I'm writing something in my blog despite having nothing whatsoever to say. What. So. Ever. It's lightly drizzling today, and the sky is the color of a dingy white sheet. I've been doing laundry and lying around, bein' the homegirl, bein' the fangirl. And now... I'm not bored... I'm just trying to decide what to do next. So, while watching part of the Buffy marathon today, I really started noticing those new Energizer bunny commercials, the one where the bunny is trapped inside a battery and stretchhhhing its confines as if trying to escape. I found that disturbing. Call me Anya if you will, but it reminded me of Aliens, where the little bugger starts shoving its way out, so that its head is grotesquely outlined and moving under Ripley's skin. Bunnies, bunnies, it must be bunnies. Link of the day: FameTracker.com. Look of the day: In the Buffy episode "Innocence" Oz and Willow sit in the van, and there's talk of kissage and then Oz says he won't kiss her now because she's trying to make Xander jealous, and adds: "See, in my fantasy, when I'm kissing you, you're kissing me. It's okay. I can wait." And we see Willow's face, as it really sinks in for the first time just how fucking cool Oz is, how much he really likes her--and probably, I'm guessing, how yummy he is. Willow, in her own right, looks especially yummy in that moment. It's a supreme "Yummy Willow" moment, in fact, right up there with Eskimo Will holding her fishing spear: Van Willow, with her quirked, slightly parted lips, the expression of a girl who is truly seeing someone for the first time, and the Best Hair Day Ever. Quote of the day: From Smallville's "Hourglass," written by Doris Egan (whoo, Doris!) --
Cassandra: "And don't you want a glimpse of what it is you'll make? ...Maybe I'll see your friend Clark." posted 11.22.2001 @ 4:56pm
The Womb of a Pregnant Monster I have this heavy book on my shelf called Cultural Studies, a relic of a time when I used my brain. Donna Haraway writes, "the womb of a pregnant monster, here, where we are reading and writing." I don't know what it means, but I think, yeah, coolness. Something about a biopolitics of artifactual reproduction. I remember vaguely that this article once held some kind of meaning for me--I can tell because I see the word "appropriation" buried in the pomo cult-crit babble. I flip the page and see the phrase "compulsory heterosexuality and masculinist birthing" next to which is a little line to the margin in which I've written a dryly ironic (I think), "Oh my." She also managed to coin the phrase, "the epistemologicaly most disinterested ventriloquist." Thats a ten-pound coin, whichever way you look at it. Another page and she's talking about monoclonal antibodies, and that's too much for me. Book, back on shelf. With time off today, how much can I accomplish? The possibilities are dizzying...oh, wait, that's just my hangover. I was going to go into work, because I was shooting for overtime and overtime is not happening in a holiday week unless you get in there and work. But my sciatic nerve has been biting me and my office chair--a well of comfiness of three years standing--has suddenly become a painful heavy grind against my thigh. To hell with that. So I am home, and now I am thinking of doing webby things today; working on my page, parts of which are woefully outdated; reading fan-fiction; digging ancient e-mails from my inbox and answering them. I also have a few things floating around on tape I need to watch; last week's West Wing, this week's Smallville and Angel. Yeah, I think I'll start off the day with a few hours grazing at the turf of popular culture. Discursive realms, discursive realms. Good times, good times. Green couch, blankie, iced tea, remote control. See ya.... posted 11.22.2001 @ 9:38am Thief! Meme Thief! I am going to totally steal stuff from Sabine. 'Cause, you know, she seems cool, and because I went to look at her blog, and there stuff was. First, I took the Sorting Hat test, and twice--twice, fuck them!--was sorted as a Hufflepuff. That's just so, so wrong. Sigh. And probably very right. Tell me, honestly, my image as a hot, trendy web-bitch is shot to hell, right? (What image? Right.) And then I saw the Lists of Four. And I feel a need, because I am have just enough alcohol in my blood stream, to offer my own trivia. Four things you would eat on the last day of your life:
Holy Crap Click here for November 20 Buffy spoilers ("Smashed"). posted 11.20.2001 @ 9:50pm Stuff Hey, it's not every day a snappy title just bites you on the ankle. I'm thinking of--and possibly being very unoriginal about it--a new measurement of life experience: Time Waster Capacity. (Except I won't always capitalize it.) My time-waster capacity today was at about 40%. I went into work, piddled around, did some work, lost two hours somewhere ("Mulder, are you okay?") and then spent three more fruitlessly searching the web for a cross-browser (read: Netscape) alternative to iframes, which are nifty IE-supported devices that let you embed text in a page; or for a Netscape-friendly version of collapsing outlines. I ended up, hours later, back at the simplistic idea of scrolling text boxes, an idea that I'm not yet resigned to. All of this seeking was in support of trying to find a way to add to this page, via sexy, revelatory mouse clicks, movie and show reviews sans spoilers for those who want to avoid them. Text is hidden, draw back the skirt, peep the text. Voila, hotcha cha cha cha. Wanted to post more trivial noodlings here but it's time for Buffy. posted 11.20.2001 @ 7:50pm I was with a girl scout troupe. The four of us had trekked up a snowy mountain. At the top we found a rather nice cabin, but the long, round metal chimney was broken off. We'd have to fix it if we were going to sleep inside. I picked up part of the chimney and examined it, then we went in. Someone said that we should make sure to document--with a camera--any work we did. I think it would help us get our merit badges or something. Inside the cabin is rather nice--wide, grey boards, well-fitted. There's a kitchen, a living room, a bath and bedroom. We stand around and examine things. Sandy goes in the bedroom and says we can all take turns resting on the bed. I think there's only one bed. That should be fun. Meanwhile, someone has pulled the refrigerator out from the wall because it's this that we have to fix, not the chimney. No other memories of the cabin, no segue--though I think I was looking for something to eat--and I recall that I was in a mall. Notice my thing with malls? I leave my abode in the mall, which is on the basement level, a modestly dark place of reinforced concrete. For some reason I have decided to wander around the mall in an inadequate bath towel, and am naked underneath. I walk around with the other fully clothed people, none of whom really looks at me, even though yes, it is odd for people to be wearing towels in public. Even in dreams. There's a part where, still in the mall, I pass by a frat house. Inside--I can see through a window--a couple of guys are making a sandwich out of really noxious looking houseplant leaves. I exchange a glance and shudder with a fellow passer-by. Frat pranks. Evil. I fall into step with the passer-by and we walk around the mall. I think he's actually from the frat, and he's a tall, curly-headed guy, very straight, but when he meets up with my coworker B.E., fratboy thanks him for his movie recommendation and gives him a kiss on the lips, a kiss very continental in style. "He kissed you," I said to B. as we go into a store selling various pie-wedge-shaped recipe books. B. acknowledges this and then wanders away. I begin to feel that I should go home because the damn towel keeps slipping and I have to keep opening it wide and readjusting it, which requires me to flash anyone who happens to be standing in front of me during this little maneuver. I go to the elevator, wait in front of it with an impatient and suddenly self-conscious hunch. Two sleekly perfect girls, one wearing khakis and short, chunky white boots, join me, along with a third woman. We all get inside the elevator. One of the sleekly perfects makes some snide remark--I suspect I'd given her the evil eye. Without turning around, I raise my middle finger. Or I don't. Both alternate events happen, and I get off the elevator and return to my little hobbit house in the mall. There was also a part, perhaps before I actually left my house, where I was sitting in my towel in the hallway of my childhood home. My mother passed by, grimaced, and told me to put something on. I think she got a Sharon Stone kinda flash there. Sorry, mom, and ewww. I said I'd just been waiting to dry off a bit before I got dressed. We started discussing furniture rearrangement. My mother was going to put up a number of small storage cabinets and had marked the carpet with little black grooved tracks to indicate where they'd go. I was annoyed that one was going in the hallway, which would make it too narrow to walk through. Now we break off mid-dream to begin our day. posted 11.20.2001 @ 7:15am
The Rain in Seattle Falls Mainly on the... Okay, humor should not be attempted while drinking. Today was a Monday--did you notice? I drove to work, arrived at nine-thirty, and had to park my car in a two-hour parking zone on First Hill. I do this almost every day, ever since daylight savings changed over and I lost my ability to wake up at seven, act relatively human, and drive a car. Arriving late--after eight a.m., that is--means I am fucked for finding a free space and have to park in residential zones and move my car every two hours or so until an unlimited parking space opens up somewhere. I've gotten into a shape just good enough to make these uphill walks to my car bearable, even in the chilly rain. I consider it a useful exercise now, which will ensure that my legs to do not cramp up and cause me to die from thrombosis like the passengers of long, international airplane flights. Okay, fine. Today, though, I wore my Timberland duck boots, which quacked every time I walked down the hall to the elevator and thence (thence?) to my car. This is a pair of boots, priced well over a hundred dollars, which a mere week after purchase began honking like a duck. Excruciating. Embarrassing both in public and private. I wore them today because my bright-white nerd sneakers were beginning to worry me; they're a pair of crafty, slippery devils which threaten to pitch me ass-first every time I tread the wet sidewalks to move my car. Rain. Seattle Noir. Gotta love it. It's grey and wet and the sidewalks are slathered with thick coats of red and yellow leaves and it's dusk at four-thirty. Home, sweet home. My boss worked from home today--wife, appointment; daughter, appointment. Person with a life outside work; person with a laptop. I could have exercised myself to hate him, but I didn't care that much. And it meant we were left totally alone. We are a quiet, self-motivated bunch, my team. In the boss's absence, we continue droning at our tasks. It was deathly quiet today. Rather awful, when I noticed, so I tried not to, and worked. In a desultory fashion, as they say. And in the freedom of his absence, work done, I read MightyBigTV.com's synopses of Smallville and laughed until I nearly cried. I would have read sneakily, but my tearful wheezing caught the attention of my officemates. Damn the challenge of summaries--you write a few paragraphs, want to close gracefully, and there's nothing to say, except that it's 11:09pm and life goes the hell on. posted 11.19.2001 @ 11:13pm The Size of a Pea No spoilers, but I went to see Harry Potter tonight. There were a number of kids there, but they were very well-behaved. The adults, though.... I was sitting next to a group of women; at the outset, they cheerfully informed neighbors that they were an office party. Apparently they worked for the Department of Bladder Research and were dedicated to their work, for throughout the movie they made many trips--sometimes in pairs--to visit the restroom and take samples. I sat at the end of their row. It was a narrow row and a long film. Sadder, however, was the man afflicted with the pea-sized bladder and belled like a cat--I do not lie--who jingled off to piss no less than six times during the film. We were also graced by a celebrity visit from Asshole Cell Phone Man, who did at least take his call elsewhere but chatted in a carrying voice along the way and then stood outside the theatre door to continue his dialogue for several minutes. I have sympathies for the small-bladdered--one dreads the day--but it's my one hope in life that Cell Phone Man will be stranded on a small island in the South Pacific with his useless phone and that when staggering up the beach he will be hit on the head by a coconut and fall across a rock and break his spine and that his ears will be chewed off slowly by rabid monkeys. It's not really my one hope, but I hold it momentarily dear to my heart. posted 11.18.2001 @ 10:24pm The Two Thirty-Four PM of the Soul Bleed, bleed, bleed. I'm really glad this day is off the clock, rather than of the clock. I made and valiantly slayed a bowlful of lunch (no, not vice versa), then slid into bed and whimpered. I had two Midol. Later, I had another. It's still not working particularly well. Luckily, you are not here for me to bite you. "You" being anyone, particularly male, in my reach at this moment. I am biting cookies instead. Update on today's trivia. New hot site pick of the day is Bitchpanic.com, with special spotlight on Shack's entries Giraffes are Never Happy and Mistress Cleo and Me. He was starting to give me a complex, this guy was so funny, but then I read his entries about unemployment and nutritional breakdown and felt much better. Runner-up site of the day is the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest 2001 Results from which I quote:
posted 11.18.2001 @ 2:34pm
Periodical The day before my period is usually a very bad day. It wasn't until about five years ago that I made the correlation, though. For most of my life, I would just get abruptly miserable. It was a surprise every single time. I figured it was part of my personality. Now I have hormonal reasons to explain the sudden inner rage, the plummeting self-esteem, the exhaustion of will and body, the suicidal ideation. Even so, I managed to forget all of this yesterday and the experience hit me out of the blue like a two-by-four. Late in the day, after returning from work, I found two logical inconsistencies while re-reading an old Stargate story of mine, then went fishing on a small Seattle e-mail list for movie buddies and got no reply. Feeling lonely and pathetic, I watched thirty minutes of Bastard out of Carolina and had a crying jag unlike anything I've had in ten years or so. I dragged myself out of the house and drove along the I-5 in the glittering cold and thought idly about driving through a guardrail and into the bay. Instead, I went to a movie, The Man Who Wasn't There, and this--well, this didn't help. Afterwards, I went down the street and stared at movie times, went into a trattoria and stared at the menu. Nearly had a crying jag again when the maitre d' offered me a seat at the bar instead of a table. Went home without my spaghetti marinara or Harry Potter. Managed not to drink. Watched some of The Maltese Falcon and then went to bed. Woke up bleeding. Also dreamed of my old boyfriend Steve this morning. I'd long ago rejected Steve and we'd broken up but remained in one of those odd, quasi-friendships where you never talk about the past. It was years later, and we'd been living together in an apartment all that time with a few other roommates. We were eating dinner, and I started getting more and more affectionate, because he was safe, a friend. After gradual insinuation, I ended up lying back against his chest, stretched out between his arms and legs. I had the vantage point of looking down along my fat body. As we talked, I realized he still carried a torch for me despite how I'd put the pounds on over the years. I had a hard time believing this, but it moved me to want to try again with him. We cuddled. I straddled his lap. He winced. I said anxiously, "I'm putting all my weight on my knees." We kissed--I remember that I had to remove my chewing gum. After a few light pecks, we went to announce our sudden affiance to our roommates. A new girl, M., was just moving in, with folks carrying and setting up furniture for her. I knew M. We'd had an uneasy, ambiguous sort of friendship. We announced our affair to everyone, including her, by placing various symbolic items on a table that were connective--a knot, a belt with buckle, a box with a latch. Something like that. They actually figured it out. Such is the language of dreams. I also dreamed that I'd written an HTML page full of tables and formatting that suddenly became Indian--like, you know those sites where you can plug in a URL and it will subvert the content in a systematic and organized way. Not that I can think of an example. But in the dream, my HTML tables became graceful and elaborate Indian designs with bejeweled elephants and maharajahs riding in royal boxes, very stylized, with my words embedded here and there on each elephant. CD of the day: Buffy: The Musical
posted 11.18.2001 @ 9:34am
Mono-Track Mind I just want to say... Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. Buffy and Spike. CD I'm listening to today: Ryan Adams' Gold, which just came in the mail. A co-worker was visiting Ireland recently and got to hear this American singer perform on his European tour. The first day he was back in the office he brought in the CD and lent it around. I'd ordered it online before the first side finished playing. This kicks ass. This is also my private Buffy soundtrack. Well, the second song is a mental Fraser/RayK vid, but song five is a Buffy vid, song seven is a Willow/Tara vid (no matter how bad I wanted it to be Buffy/Spike at first), and fourteen is a Buffy/Angel vid (see previous parenthetical remark). I'm sure there's more in there, if I just keep listening.... If you buy this, make sure to get the copy with the bonus tracks--it's the one linked above. posted 11.14.2001 @ 12:41am
Scary Pizza I find it odd that Domino's has adopted the Pulp Fiction theme to sell the idea of pizza delivery "right to your door." The only association that music wakens in me is bloody violence, so I can't help but imagine skanky psychos with guns coming to my door on the pretext of delivering dinner, spouting Bible quotes, and then blowing me away. Way to work that branding, guys. Those remarks have nothing to do with today's plane crash, but I find I can't say anything about that. No one is talking about it on lists, even. Not sure if we've decided as a group mind that it's not terrorism and so it doesn't ping our fears, or if it's just too much and we don't want to go there. I was moody all day. I am mood girl, my face smooth and grey, but changeable. I am also TV consumer couch girl, having spent all evening watching TV--Buffy, half of Babe, Angel. I made myself put 24 on record rather than sit there another hour sucking in the rays. My TV hot site pick of the day: ChristianAnswers.net's spotlight on TV. Just click on the show titles to see user reviews and comments. The section on Sailor Moon was most entertaining. The section on Buffy had some not unintelligent posts. Strangest gif found hidden away in my documents folder: Facial Hair Types. See Anna do java pop-up! posted 11.12.2001 @ 10:15pm All Buffy, All the TimeI just read some of the best fan-fiction ever, and feel all glowy. And the weird thing is, it was het. I mean, let's face it: I've been slash-oriented practically since the cradle. I never read het. I. Never. Read. Het. But ever since Spike and Buffy started their wacky mating dance, I've been as hyped up as a leashed dog at a cat parade. The musical left me goo. Happy goo. So at the bash last night, Sandy reminded me that she'd recced some Buffy/Spike, and I went home and dug it out of my inbox and read the stuff, staying up all night to do so, until six a.m. came and I was more undead than alive. In a good way. Three fabulous stories by RivkaT and MustangSally: The Heart's Filthy Lesson, Serious Moonlight, and Changes. Three fabulous, brilliant, exquisitely long, perfectly characterized, amazingly voiced, extensively well-plotted stories. With lots and lots and lots of sex. Even the most well-written het sex usually makes me yawn and click off the page and go in search of small cheap, slashy beer, but this went down like fine wine until I was stupid drunk, drunk with joy. The writing was so mesmerizing I couldn't even pull my attention from the ever-scrolling page long enough to hate them for their brilliance. If all of the show's most skilled and Spike-loving writers collaborated with canonical accuracy--leavened by graceful flights free of it--to pen torrid and darkly romantic novels based on the series, they would have had a hard time coming up with better. I had few to no carps--there were a few formatting issues here and there, a sudden heavy peppering of "wiv's" in story three. But overall, just wonderful, the perfect supplement to season six. I want to see these on screen--especially Serious Moonlight, which is blissfully Indiana Jonesy and would deserve a full two hours. Okay, enough gushing. After sleeping into afternoon, I spent my day shopping and laundering and cleaning, with a break to watch the musical once more with feeling. I'm behind on my NaNoWriMo word count and I blame it all on two hours of syndicated Buffy every night and my own droopiness. In that vein, I slide off in the direction of bed now, after a brief wincing glance at my inbox, in which pile messages desperately deserving of replies. I will answer e-mail, I will, I will, I will. And by the time I do, the nice people who wrote me will possibly have forgotten my name. I will be clouded in the mists of time and in a haze of half-remembered resentment. ("I sent her that e-mail six months ago, for fuck's sake, and this nameless bint is just replying now?") And on the that cheerful thought, the end. posted 11.12.2001 @ 12:09am
I Have A Sudden Desire... To brush up on my blog; to add new entries every day; change the design of the page; do something creative. In lieu of actual creativity, I have changed the color of the dream bar. It's so exciting I could pee myself. I was surfing other people's blogs tonight. This is something I rarely do because I get very intimidated by other people's wit, eloquence, interesting thoughts, calligraphic lives--with, you know, curves and twists and frills of interest. My life is plain text. I swore that when I started this blog I would allow myself to be trivial and boring, just to ensure that I actually wrote something on a regular basis. But every venture takes on import, as if we are all nervous guests, self-promoting at some vast cocktail party. The cocktail party of history. I keep wanting to do those amusing surveys that people include in their blogs; but then I feel self-conscious, as if I'm trying to be trendy--and, you know, who gives a shit what my Choice of Meat or Greatest Accomplishment is? Ephemera of this kind amuses me, though. I like distraction from the fact that I'm not writing the great American novel. Most amusing thing plucked from my surfing: Basingstoke screaming: AND IF ANYONE GIVES ME SHIT FOR LIKING A ROMANCE SERIES THEN I PUNCH YOUR HEAD! PUNCH YOUR HEAD LIKE A DRUNKEN MONKEY!!!! I never say funny things like that. I keep thinking that if I'd served in the Air Force or lived in the Deep South, I'd have picked up more colorful language. As it is, I speak the language of the bland, sing in the dull cadences of suburbia. Dream from yesterday: I go to a Christian travel company to change my plane tickets. I need to leave earlier, and to change my destination. (Wow. This is deep.) I was asked where I lived--and I wasn't sure. Finally, embarrassed, I said Virginia. I realized then that my original return ticket hadn't even been marked with a destination of Virginia--i.e., home--but someplace else, in the midwest. Illinois, maybe. My car also needed to travel, so I took it in to the garage. Thus began a long, detailed period of the dream in which I consulted with the mechanics and watched my car being worked on. Most of this, mercifully, is forgotten. I bought books in the garage gift shop while I waited. Three books, one of which was the third Harry Potter book (which I haven't read yet). The mechanics said the car would be easy to fix; there was this problem with rows of flags under the body of the car--imagine rows of players on a table-hockey game. They were out of alignment. I explained about my car being towed; that it probably hadn't been on a dolly, so its drive had gone out of whack. The woman mechanic could not confirm this. As a possible fix, they washed the car, including a very thorough wash of the underside, performed by a group of us after the car had been flipped over like a turtle. Far more interesting dream from the day before that: I dreamed of Spike. He'd been evil but I still wanted to date him, fuck him. My brother wanted to hang with him, date him. Eager to head off this possibility, I pulled on the mantle of big sisterhood and told my mother about Spike, what a dark history he had, what a potential danger he could be again. It was a resentful maneuver on my part--I just wanted Spike for myself. I was jealous. I'd been hanging with Spike, my brother, and some chick. We'd been walking along the street--as I so often do in dreams, in my utterly pedestrian fashion--when I turned around and saw the three of them getting into a car, cool folks ditching a geek. I bicycled off in a huff. I had a scheme, though: I would return to Spike a videotape of his that I'd borrowed, as a pretext for seeing him again. My dream proceeds apace like a cheap teen flick. Spike lived across town, so this was a trip to be planned out. I dressed to kill--I had a red sweater, I recall, and a particularly mod coat. Perhaps pleather. I was even wearing a skirt. Tights. I was chunky but retro-thrift-hip. I made up my face in the mirror. I had huge hair, madly out of control--like a dead Boston fern--which I kept pawing at, and one blown eye, my right: a huge pool of blackness, all pupil. I put the videotape in my roomy coat pocket along with my keys and some other crap. There was an interlude with my brother then, in the downstairs bathroom, which involved plunging out the toilet, in which had lodged an enormous metal ladder, broken into pieces and regurgitated by the plunger. I then opened the toilet--a larger and more complex object than normal toilets--and found a computer inside, caught like a pig in a python. Toilets come up a lot in my dreams, it's worth noting. But for the reader's sake, I usually omit those bits. But to move on. I left the house and set off to find Spike, but nearly stumbled across him lounging in the alley outside my building. I thought he'd slept somewhere nearby--for crying out loud, it was still day. I mentioned this, and he pointed out that it was sunset. He gestured and I looked and so it was. The shadows were stretching across the streets and the clouds were heaped up in the sky, dark atop and gilded underneath, resting like meringue above the trees and rooftops. Ruddy gold light lingered over everything, dying patches of the sun.... I also had a dream this morning about Mulder being tied up and sodomized. But that's all I have to say about that. posted 11.11.2001 @ 1:13 am
I Dream of Buffy Quite a lot. Last night it was Buffy leading the way at night to an underground sewer pipe, and pausing there with an acolyte in tow--Faith, maybe--before stretching the opening wide and crawling in head-first. I think Faith said something like, "I don't need you to teach me this," and Buffy said she did. The tunnel lead to the underworld, a cellar corridor lined with apartment doors in which lived various people Buffy had rescued--a group of pathetic souls that included refugees from WKRP, Herb and Dr. Johnny Fever. Don't even hurt your brain trying to figure out mine. On a totally separate note, I dreamed that my grandfather wanted to spend $79,000 (the precise figure) to refurbish my Plymouth Reliant, rather than buying me a new car for much less. I spent a great deal of time and effort trying to convince him this was not sensible. You know, I could use that money. And a new car. I wouldn't mind a take two on this dream dilemma, reshot in reality. posted 11.06.2001 @ 8:30 am
Last Night, Every Night I was asked my opinion of a piece of art. It was at first glance, a crude work: a puppet fashioned as a woman, hanging from a circuit of wire on a board. She was large, colorful, papier-mache. But then I watched her put through her paces; she was meant to be in a relationship with a man who asked her opinion but only heard what he wanted to hear. She was a victim of her unrequited love. She was designed to hang symbolically alongside him, and would then be trotted out to air her feminine wisdom; this was represented by having her propelled along the circuit--rather like figures coming out of a cuckoo clock--and then back again. Taped speech was hooked into this process, and the figure's arm raised on wire in some unclear gesture each time she spoke. The piece was much more sophisticated then I'd realized, and I enthused about it to the people gathered there with me. We ended up watching a far more elaborate theater presentation built up around the initial performance piece. There were dozens of us arrayed in an impromptu audience, absorbed by the drama of a woman walking along with her male friend. The man asks her opinions of another woman he wants to sleep with; she verbally struggles with him and with her angst. Then participants were drawn from the audience to fill in certain roles. At first we thought they were chosen at random, but then we suspected this was pre-arranged. Chosen was Jonathan, the nebbishy character from Buffy; I think Buffy was slightly worried about him, because she drew him into her cloak and whispered with him before letting him climb up to the stage. On the stage were a bevy of girls, a girl-cult, who were proposing to accept him in membership. He had to demonstrate that he was ready by choosing a book. Ostensibly, the correct book to be chosen was some powerfully symbolic tome, which sat on top of a stack, on some library shelves. Everyone watched him as he took this book and removed it, and reinserted it on another shelf. Then instead he chose a paperback entitled "Winning Your Way to a Better Self in Thirty Days" and another famous one by Ursula K. LeGuin, the plot of which was a girl falling in love with her foreign dad. The girls were very pleased. He had passed the test. posted 11.04.2001 @ 11:31 am
Back to the Dream Factory I've jotted down bits of dreams in a notebook with no particular date-- But wait. To kick this off, let me tell you that I woke up just now from a rather horrible dream. I was standing on a plain among a scattered army, camped and going about its daily business. Our leader had been talking with a Merlin-like character who'd appeared to help our forces. Merlin spotted me, the young solider boy, and asked me to serve him. My leader was affronted--why hadn't he been chosen? A very odd reaction. We then set off on our journey, into a giant mall of sorts--an interior and deserted world. I remember that once I got inside, I scaled a huge, graded wall and looked over to see a small enclosed park open to the sky. A half dozen apes were inside--well, maybe orangutans--big graceful creatures black and white creatures swinging through the foliage with long mobile arms; and a man I'd once known who was now living with apes. I can't recall the next part of the dream too well, except that we were spreading a search throughout the depopulated Giant Mall World. We thought this to be alien, but everything we found--books, backpacks, sweatshirts (it was rather collegiate)--was printed in English. We looted in a desultory way. I was on point, and far ahead, so I kept seeing individual aliens who disappeared before the rest of my party arrived. They were calm aliens, human in appearance and silent, who would turn from their tasks and stare consideringly at me before walking off. My goal was to present one of these aliens to my compadres. The next thing I remember we were gathered in a living room. I was investigating the possible presence of aliens. I walked into the next room, examining some evidence. Someone from the group made a remark in a funny voice, with a new, gravelly undertone or metallic echo. "Who said that?" I asked when I returned. I homed in on a large, blandly dough-faced woman sitting on the couch. She was one of our group; I knew her. "Hello," I said pleasantly and pointedly, coming up in front of her, kneeling. "Who are you? What's your name?" She had an alien inside now. She'd been taken over. The rest of the dream involves discovering that the aliens are in fact disembodied heads (think Futurama or Mars Attacks!) with big teeth and inexplicable mobility, who would take over people's bodies. This particular alien tried to convice us that he had not "overwritten" his host's brain, because that was not allowed, but that their brains coexisted side by side. However, he could detach the head at will--the body was now simply a huge appendage, a piece of interchangeable luggage--and there was no way the original personality could manipulate the head--i.e., move it, survive alone. Did I mention this head had very big sharp teeth? Other dream fragments. I dream of flying. Breaking into someone's house with two kitchens and a dog. Black smoke coming off the ocean, a flying bug. Flying over two children and their mothers, a video store full of kids, and a man calling into a radio show I was hosting and talking about the famous beautiful house, Lincoln's house. I dream of enormous rats (think R.O.U.S.), ashamed of their size and condition, rummaging through dumpsters in an urban alley. Rats with shamed, sad faces. I dream of a man dancing nose to nose with a cow. I dream of buying Dunkin Doughnuts and a burger. I dream of entering a woman's house who had stolen or abused a child. I didn't know the child was there, maybe in the basement. I walked around the first floor of the house, then left. There were buried merry-go-round horses in a black lagoon outside her house. Their dark wooden heads just barely broke the surface. I left, walking down the highway. She was walking toward home, a ways down the road behind me. I thought she might see my receding back and identify me. I tried to keep in alignment with a telephone pole so that I would not be spotted. posted 11.03.2001 @ 10:07 am
Cooking I've been cooking a lot lately, and buying kitcheny things, and watching the Food Netork (Iron Chef is very addictive). And you know, the kitchen always leads one down the path to kitsch, so I'm going to own my kitschiness and include here a recipe for soup.
1 small zucchini
I also like to include, depending on how much other stuff I've dumped in, 2-3 small, fresh red-skinned baby potatoes; and I put in about 1/2 pound of free-range chicken too, but any vegetarians can leave this out. This makes about 2 quarts of soup, so you'll need a 2 or 3 quart pot. Pour in the broth, then add some water--but don't fill it all the way up, because you'll be adding all the other ingredients. Not quite 2/3 full is good. Then just chop everything up and add it. It does take a while to chop it all, and you don't have to turn on the heat until you're done--it'll be fine. When ready, heat to boil, then reduce to medium-low, cover, and simmer for half an hour or so. It makes insanely good soup, and the fresh herbs and garlic are really the key to bliss. Notes: Poultry Medley is the name for a mix of fresh herbs that they sell in little plastic boxes, usually hanging in the produce/herb section of the market; a box is $1.99 or so. It's probably the cheapest way to get five types of fresh herb, if you can find it. Pacific organic broth comes in these large boxes, like juice boxes; very nice. I don't actually know if they sell these things everywhere. If not, I'm sure there are alternatives. posted 10.26.2001 @ 12:58 pm SeinfeldThis a blog about nothing. No sweeping plot or thirty-minute resolutions, just a record of trivia and incidents and moods. In the incident report today, I'm sitting around waiting for a call about my car. Yesterday morning I went out and found someone else's key jammed in the ignition. A thief's key. An incompetent thief's key, which is a mixed blessing. Called AAA, who had a locksmith come out, but at a delayed pace, which allowed time for my landlord to happen by and help me by attempting to wrench the key from the lock. During which he broke it off. If he weren't such a nice guy, I'd have to hate him. The locksmith finally arrived and took the steering wheel apart and then told me that the steering wheel could not be taken completely apart, without a special tool to take steering wheels apart on Plymouth Reliants, and I'd need to take it to a dealer. So I had it towed in, and now am waiting to go pick it up and pay a bill of several hundred dollars. Which is tacked on to the AAA renewal fee I paid when I called, which is compounded by the extra day of work I've missed. I maybe could have avoided this. I haven't locked my car for a few years. The door lock stopped working, and I didn't want to pay to have them remove the door panel and poke around inside to find out what might be the matter. My car is not the type of car to attract thieves, I thought. It's old and I've never washed it and the radio doesn't work and it's filled with useless crap. Occasionally, I'd see signs that someone had rummaged in my car--pawed through the crud-covered pennies in my ashtray, opened my empty glove compartment. But that was the extent of it. Now I'm paying--$67 to have them remove the door panel. Not necessarily to do anything, but to remove the panel and report back. Today was supposed to be a leisurely day off--go see a few movies, lie around, begin a three-day weekend; a break before the online retail season kicked off and our holiday blackout period kicked in. At least today I'm warm. Yesterday, I spent an hour plus huddling in my car and watching for the locksmith, only somewhat protected from the chill and drizzle, because the AAA rep thought I had to wait with the car--too new to realize I could have waited inside and been given a callback. I mention this for the benefit of anyone reading; you don't have to wait with your car, goddamn it. Another cold hour with the locksmith...a little shivering session while the tow-trucker hooked it up...cold and wet was my world. Then, sans car, I trekked out to get groceries and videos and booze and came home and drank a lot, and my day eased into a more pleasant stupor, with blankies and hot soup. I'm realizing this is nothing but a tale of mild woe, with not even any gracenotes of Seinfeldian humor to redeem it. And that I'm at risk for springboarding off of this incident and diving into a series of complaints about why my life sucks. In its mild way. And yet Wednesday, when I was driving on the I-5 to Tacoma for a business trip, I had one of those perfect windows--ten or twelve seconds--of bittersweet joy, like biting into a slightly sour apple. With the wind and the rain and the grey skies. In my car. posted 10.26.2001 @ 12:30 pm
Happiness I don't get what they call "happy people." I suppose they exist. I've seen possibilities of happiness, recordings of happiness--people jotting down their joys, telling stories about their children, stories of sitting with good friends and drinking wine and watching dogs gambol. Maybe. But I think there are points in life when you just can't be happy. It's seven o'clock at night and you could go to a movie, or rent a movie, or read a book, or write a poem, or exercise, or eat chocolate, or go sit in a mellow cafe, or listen to music, or go online and futz around, or walk down Broadway window-shopping in the crisp air for used books and organic soap--and you feel all these impulses tugging at you and none of them holds any distinctive edge of appeal. They all sound good, but the pleasures are as uniform and tasteless as pretzels--good for you, in a dry, semi-filling sort of way. Too many options, and they're all manufactured and sterile and none of them draw blood. Or you've done those things, and you still feel a twist of anxiety in your gut, a hollowness. I suppose it's just about being lonely. Not having anyone to touch. Being stuck in that hermit-crab shell of your life, halfway in, halfway out--crawling determinedly out now and then, but not getting all the way out, still dragging solitude around. Stuck. This is what drives people to take cooking classes. posted 10.11.2001 @ 8:10 pm
|
||
