Apr. 21st, 2009 10:58 am


Woke up at 6:45 from a dream in which my 80-year-old neighbor followed me to the bus stop intoning that he was going to eat me. Fled, in slow motion. Was pursued, in slow motion. Not like cinema slow motion either, I mean flight-and-pursuit-by-walking-leisurely-through-the-sunny-day. Dream wound up with me clambering over a fence (he walked through the unlocked gate, d'oh,) and grasped me and as I tried to hit his face with a rock, he sank a stiletto into my right kidney. So I yanked it out and sank it into him, but his skin was too tough.

Hopefully if I find myself in this situation I will be able to murder my murderer more effectively. And also WHAT THE HELL, BRAIN?!?

(So I guess Freddy Krueger has no power over me, since I demonstrate this remarkable ability to die of stabbing in my dreams?)

Woke up thinking I had missed the bus.

(Aforesaid 80-year-old neighbor has been dead since I was, like, ten.)


There's a certain radio announcer who pisses me off with his self-righteous snap-to conclusions and his perfectly self-centered commentary. And I have the excellent fortune to be waking up just as they do their news coverage -- to which this idiot feels he can make relevant commentary in, literally, about six seconds per story. (Sadly he annoys me less than other stations I've woken up to.) So I'm double cranky now with this: Father denies Slumdog child sale, and the entire American media including this putz with his habitual thimble deep commentary screaming at me, as I wake up from nightmares: "OMG THESE PEOPLE, you don't deserve a wonderful little girl ya ya yaaaaaaaah!"

SHUT UP UNTIL YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. ALSO YOUR VENDETTA AGAINST "OCTO-MOM" IS NO LONGER FUNNY. We know you don't like her. Not caring for her voice is not a valid reason for this. "Somebody should slap her" is not valid commentary. Nor is a SINGLE CONDEMNATORY THING YOU SAY in any way remotely helpful to the eight kids who are already here.

Not. Cute.

I KNOW that child trafficking is a worldwide problem (not that anyone mentions this in their thimble deep but very loud radio commentary). But when you're doing news you're supposed to get the fucking facts before you trumpet them up and down the airwaves in six-second increments, and if you don't have time for this perhaps you should just play the music like your sponsors are paying you to do and quit yelling as if you know what you were talking about?

Especially in light of this shit which will never get as much coverage: Meet the Parents: The Dark Side of Overseas Adoption

(Oh, but of course those parents should be GRATEFUL.)

SO FREAKING CRANKY. Not dealing well with the world this morning.

(I did in fact eventually miss my bus.)

On the freebie table, there is a large Dunkin' Donuts box.

When you open the box, it is pristine, and on the bottom is written in blue marker: "YOUR FAT ASS DOESN'T NEED A [crude drawing of doughnut, complete with sprinkles]."

Ah, the world of women's magazines. I'm going to McDonald's later. I'm having fries. I have just decided this.

I had... I don't know how to describe this dream. 'Unpleasant' is the closest I can come, but not an actual nightmare.

My family (mother's side) has set me up with a guy of the sort I would never seek out on my own. (I'll leave it at that.) The thing is, a great many of them are on the "date" with me. This is like nineteen people of several generations. Kind of Thanksgivinglike. We are all in my cousin's apartment eating, and I'm sitting there in my attractive outfit and secretly matchy-matchy underwear (dude is on the opposite side of the room, family between, feeding us), and I'm thinking 1) How stupid, for us to sit and have a family meal when I'm about to go out and eat more with this guy. 2) Does this mean I can't have any more [unidentifiable dinner item]? 3) Why am I doing this when I promised myself that in my thirties I was not going to put myself into any more blatantly uncomfortable situations unless life was at stake?

Sitting there on the couch, bitterly thinking these thoughts, I have a newspaper spread out on the coffee table in front of me -- the newspaper is, essentially, LiveJournal, in my Refried thingamajig (very clean lines, white background, green accents) format, and it's interactive. So interactive, in fact, that when I accidentally spill batter (I don't know why I have batter) over [ profile] tammylee's entry where she has a digital picture of a still-baking cake that she has meticulously sculpted into a pink-lotus pai sho tile from "Avatar: the Last Airbender," my batter runs into the picture, into all the sculpting, and gets baked into the lines and color and obscures and ruins everything. I salvage things by slicing it all up small with a very sharp kitchen knife and (reaching down into and through the LJ entry) deep-frying the whole shebang into chips. (American definition of.)

Tams, I totally got out of bed this morning reminding myself to apologize to you and offer you reimbursement. (That is, before I woke up all the way. ^____^)

meme-ish )
Creepy crawlies are plaguing my life.

I was gonna say insects, but there was a spider involved. *is prim* ^__^ )

In further life news... I'm starting to wonder if maybe confessing my exorbitant book purchases publicly will encourage me, via shame, to quit DOING that. When I was in college it was a point of pride among Lit/Law majors -- people would walk in, sort of smile/scowl contemptuously and say "Come on, have you actually READ all of those?" and in general we could all quite proudly go "Yes!" (And flip them off.) My collecting is outstripping my pride! I have enough to last me the rest of the year, at least...

(Enough books, I mean. Pride I dunno.)

So okay, shame: Yesterday, I bought:

The Explosionist by Jenny Davidson
Infoquake by David Louis Edelson
1491 by Charles C Mann
Halting State by Charles Stross
Lopsided by Meredith Norton

We will not mention the boxed DVD set(s). In my defense, they were marked down to $16.99 from $48 bucks for July 4th weekend. C'MON, IT WAS VERONICA MARS. And, um, other stuff...

I am being good though!!! -- I am waiting for the latest Jacqueline Carey, Jim Butcher, Graham Joyce, Simon Green, and Charles Stross in paperback. "Eternity Watch" does not count, since the Night Watch series is all in paperback anyway.*** I mean, I'm still waiting for it, but since the only other option is learning to read Russian it's not like I have a choice and doesn't speak so much to my moral fiber. ^___^ OkayandI'vesortofput thelatestKushielonorderatthelibrary.

(The Charles Stross is going to be a hard wait as I've already skimmed the first page: the suicidal ramblings of a pleasurebot drunk on battery acid...) Speaking of which, I think hard SF might be the last genre in which the use of first person does not send me screaming away, or at least give me pause for a few seconds. In a lot of genres (outside of YA, and barring real talent) it seems to be the first indicator of an oncoming huge, whiny, self-indulgent extravaganza (not always, of course, but I have prejudices). With SF, sometimes, the material is so esoteric and inherently distancing that the first-person becomes a crucial bridge.

Finished The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly last night.

I do quite well with things entitled "The Book Of [Something]," it seems. The Book of Joe, The Book of Joby, The Book of the Dun Cow... ^___^ (Look 'em up! Especially "Joe.")

Anyway, loved "Lost Things," not least because one of my fondest wishes is to someday be able to write a proper trickster. (The Crooked Man is more psychopathic serial killer than loveable Anansi or patron/caretaker Raven, though.) Loved the corruption and melding of fairy tales, the restoration of their original menace. Plus coming-of-age is generally fun, and Connolly has a lovely, deceptively simple writing voice, although I think bookshops who choose to put this one in the YA section are grossly mistaken (I got mine in SF/Fantasy where it belongs). I might gush more if all my gushing had not been done for me by all the "Connolly is the best thing since the wheel and fire!" blurbs on the book jacket, which always set you up for disappointment. Maaaaaaaybe the best thing since Laughing Cow cheese triangles. Which is no small praise, really.

One of the more disconcerting things about the book (the physical book, not the story within), which also turned out to be one of the cooler things about it: Around the last third of the paperback is reprints of all the fairy tales used in the book, some of which I'd never heard of before ("The Tale of the Three Surgeons"???), with author commentary and a bit of background on why he chose each one. (Essentially, dude has written me a midterm.) Disconcerting because you don't expect the end of the story to happen and you're budgeting your mental time for about 70 more pages with these characters you care about.

Am a couple chapters into "The Explosionist" (a YA), and not loving the writing style. Lots of telling and not showing when it comes to the main character's emotions, which is extremely stilted, especially in first-person. "I felt shy." "I became frightened." "I was fond of him." That the writer comes from a nonfiction background is quite clear. (And I don't buy that the younger intended audience justifies the too-direct style, either -- Gail Carson Levine's writing is poetry incarnate and her audience is in middle school. And have we DISCUSSED "The Book Thief"? Jesus.)

The premise, though, is quite fascinating -- there is a spate of suicide bombings going on in 1930s Edinburgh, in a world where Napoleon won at Waterloo and Scotland broke from the U.K. around the same time. There's some interesting political theory going on considering it's aimed at 15-year-olds. And girls doing math and physics! But I wouldn't be surprised if I got distracted midway.

Addendum: Speaking of books for girls, I think I love this woman.

*** Someone explain to me why series I like -- and have bought from six to nine installments of -- in paperback are now suddenly busting out with the hardcovers? Are they aware that this does not match? Are they trying to trigger OCD in addition to my random miserliness?

(Don't explain for real, I'm aware of the bottom-line of the business. But venting is psychologically sound practice. It's true!)

#### LOL! I just remembered that it was 6AM. So I slept with the light AND the sun on. For 1/2 hour. Ah well.
Last night I dreamed I was in a horror movie. Bill Nighy knifed me to death. (Or was about to -- I woke myself up.)

Interestingly, I still find him oddly attractive. Don't ask.
tsubaki_ny: (camellia (tsubakinohana))
Odd dreams, odd dreams -- I actually dreamt I was Seiji Date, which has never, ever happened before. I was 12 years old, very very extremely pale and skinny and blonde (so possibly I was really Artemis Fowl, which I am okay with), and trying my damndest to get out of gym class. (I walked into the gym and then snuck out directly with the class before, which had gotten a little delayed -- the coach, in a maroon basketball uniform, was very apologetic -- and were upperclassmen, so they were very tall and hid my hair. This was less cartoonish than it sounds -- I'm pretty sure I snuck off to have hot monkey nookie with my 17 year old boyfriend. Not entirely sure, because I woke up before I got there.)

16,017 words, plus notes I didn't get to type up on Sunday. As far as the actual "competition" goes, blah. As far as I thought I would be doing, squee! I like being forced to write down everything that pops into my head. (Also, thinking in terms of words instead of pages makes it seem like less of a pittance. Although thinking in terms of pages -- 44 -- makes it seem more doable. I'm wishy washy that way.)

This whole entry is SUCH an avoidance tactic. I'm going. ~__^
So weird -- I dreamt I was an adoptee, whose birth mother -- dying of something incurable -- found me and asked me to help her commit suicide by crashing her car into a post. We had a tearful finally-I-meet-you-and-now-good-bye and rolled the sedan down a hill, but it accidentally crashed into a passing train, with fire and derailment and casualties among the passengers.

(I do believe the train was a double decker.)

So the whole dream turns into this thriller of me avoiding the police. I have incriminated myself by having forensically identifiable oil smears in my schoolbag and leaving my sweater and a can of gasoline at the crime scene.

Did I mention that in the dream, I'm about 14 years old and... I seem to be Lucy from the original Degrassi series? I am hiding in the gym.

Why are my dreams about guilt and explosions? And... er... childhood, I guess? *rinses brain*
tsubaki_ny: (charliee gift)
"Van Helsing" sucked, but because I was prepared in advance for maximum suckage, I actually managed to enjoy myself rather a lot (although it is the first time I have taken absolutely no pleasure whatsoever in a role by Kate Beckinsale). Visually stunning (I like and am impressed by CGI when it's well done and imaginative. Some people hate it always and in any case, which is why I mention/warn). Somebody put a lot of effort into it. Shame about the plot though. Double shame about Dracula's terrible "acting."

Speaking of acting: I feel better now knowing that 1) I have NOT been deluded by my hormones because 2) Chad Michael Murray can indeed act and 2) is a victim of bad writing and worse agenting. Reasoning: I got home mad late (and full of peach margaritas, yay!) and watched a bunch of episode bits from the first season of Gilmore Girls. It holds up. All the parts that made me simultaneously weepy and grinny still do. Nice.

Fell asleep at 4am. Awakened by loud knocking and bell ringing at 9am -- friend/neighbor came to tell me (weepily and in hysteria) that 1) none of the phones in the building were working and, no, it was not a terrorist attack and no one was dead but also 2) boyfriend had -- possibly but we're not entirely sure -- dumped her. Nastily.

(Sometimes people can overcome their vast cultural and political differences. Sometimes, it's just too much. Should one even bother trying?)

Provided comfort. (tried)

Have napped from then until the phones came back on.

tangent )
Last night/this morning at about 12:45 am, I went out to return three videos ("James Dean," "Unfaithful," "The Lost Boys," for curiosity's sake). I walked up a block, turned left, and got immediately hopelessly ridiculously lost.

Now I have lived in this area for two years, and the route to the video store is rather straightforward. 10 minutes tops. Leave home, turn left, turn right, voila! So why exactly was i wondering up and down in the dark at 1am for 45 minutes with visions of Gary Condit dancing in my head?

Whoever designed Queens was a retard.

"She just went out to buy a pack of gum, and her decapitated body was found three states away with birds and crosses carved on it" or some crap...

I found a school. I hadn't known it was there. It had lovely playground. Fearing midnight drug dealers (I didn't see any, but I've seen 21 Jump Street dammit) I moved on.

I walked in the middle of the streets, waiting for either 1) some speeding car to hit me 2) Freddy Krueger to reach out from under some parked van and hamstring me with a large cleaver.

It is WEIRD how streets that are so filled with buses and trucks and cars and people that it can take you fifteen minutes to drive two blocks during the day are so empty you can walk in the middle of them at night. It's even weirder how a quick turn to the left or right lands you in the middle of an empty bone-silent "suburb" of a side street. With porches. And trees. And cats.

A tree branch hits me in the head.

So I'm walking faster and faster, trying to look purposeful and determined and don't-mess-with-me. (I used to walk home at night in DC at times, and I developed a walk for this type of occasion -- did you know that women walk moving from the waist down, while men walk moving their bodies from the shoulders down? Only, it only works if you have a hooded jacket on so no one can see your boobs/ hair.)

I had no hood.

I begin to think -- holy crap, never mind the video store -- how do I get back HOME???

There was a woman out there walking -- just like me, fast and false-tough and purposeful, and I so wanted to ask her where the hell Woodhaven was but you don't talk to people in the dark at 1am because one of you is most likely a criminal or will be taken for one and tasered.

I found my way finally by realizing that the deserted rusted Long Island Rail Road overpass I was standing under was the opposite direction to the boulevard that I was trying to -- oh never mind.

Did I mention the video store is right next to a huge-ass two-to-three mile long graveyard?

I sing when I'm freaked. I don't usually pay attention to what I'm singing.

So at this point I said to myself, "Perhaps I should not be singing 'Zombie Jamboree' at this time. Perhaps 'Jesus loves the Little Children' might be a nicer choice. Let us step away from the tombstones now."

I returned my videos and got home in ten minutes.

When I got home I broke out in hives. I'm still not sure why. I have clawed a two-inch gash in my left leg.

I took two Benadryl and slathered myself with "Respite" lotion, fell asleep, and had one of the most disturbing dreams I've had this year.

Large, white, tissue-y ethereal floaty things are gliding through the air in my apartment. They are so light you can't brush or shoo them away, but if they land on you that part of you will be paralyzed. Then they will digest you -- no one says this, I just know, because it's a dream. (I don't know what it is about dreams, you get the rules intravenously or something.)

They are like a cross between very thin fabric-softener sheets and jellyfish. They are so thin you can't see them right away, like cobwebs. One brushes my face and I shield my eyes. One has landed on my elbow, and it burns and I can't move my arm anymore. Several have landed on a large white cat lying on my futon and the cat is completely paralyzed and helpless, and out of the stress and desperation of this utter immobility it has started to talk -- its voice is deep and croaky, like the devices they use for people with throat cancer. The cat has green eyes and they glitter. It's lying flat out on the couch and asking for my help, but I can't help because the jellyfish are thick in the air between it and me. I run into a storeroom and shut the door, but I notice there are black clumps on the towel bar behind the door and in the corners on the floor, like mold spores. I realize that these are dead jellyfish -- they turn tissue-y black like chiffon when they die, almost invisible at the right angle, and I'm in a nest of them. I'm trying to clean them up with paper towels, but they burst into powder and spread all over.

I woke up twice and had to sleep with the light on. I actually don't remember turning the light on, I was so sleepy it hurt my head and made balls of pressure behind my eyes, but if I lay back down the jellyfish were waiting.

My leg hurts and I am sleeeeeeeepy.

I wonder if "Van Helsing" is really an appropriate movie-viewing choice for this evening. Ah well, who could say no to IMAX......



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