I dreamt that I was a male soldier in a war. I was advancing up a stairwell under fire. A head poked out over the top banister. I fired. The body tumbled down the stairs, landing at my feet, face up. I saw it was a dear friend. I had shot him through the left eye.
I picked up the body and cradled it, flooded with shame and remorse. When I put my head to his chest to see if he still lived, I heard a ticking. Not a heartbeat, more like a clock. I ripped open his shirt and saw the enemy had cut out his heart, replacing it with a bomb.
Just in time I tossed the body down the stairs behind me. It exploded before it even hit the ground. The concussive wave knocked me over. Debris rained down.
I pushed down my awareness of the nature of the explosive confetti that covered me, the walls, the floor. I kept moving. Up the stairs. Toward the objective.
At the top of the stairs was a cobblestone street. I was girl, about 13, in a nightgown. The director called, "Action!" so I pushed open the door of the Italian restaurant and took a seat next to my step-mother in a cheerful yellow booth at the back, next to the bathroom.
The shot was two and a half hours of me pretending to read the menu and order pasta and red sauce in slow motion while the special effects crew wrangled the flying equipment that was supposed to bring other actors floating gently in from stage left.
Instead they crashed and dropped, hovered and slid. Finally the director called it a day, completely exasperated. Arnold Swarzenegger patted my shoulder as he walked past. "Good job," he said. "A total pro." He'd been on the other end of the steel cables and harness for the last couple of hours, attempting to Peter Pan into the scene without success.
I rose, now grown, invited him to have a drink with me. We settled into a couch in the far corner and a friend brought two shots - one blue and one red. As Arnold downed the red, my friend whispered, "a total send-up of the Matrix." The liqueur turned his eyes bloodshot.
I had loud, vigorous sex on the couch with Arnold Swarzenegger, while extras and crew wandered past tidying up the set.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Wedding cake prostitution
OK so first of all, NO MORE VODKA BEFORE BED.
It is 440 am and I can honestly say I've never had the pleasure before now of waking up in a cold sweat and realizing oh thank GOD I wasn't in charge of those two wedding cakes on the way to my prostitution court date.
So here is the dealio.
I rode a bus downtown with a friend who was going to teach me how to turn tricks. But when I arrived she said I was wearing the wrong boots. I needed thigh highs with a $50 price tag.
So I called in a favor with a friend who was also the father of one of my labmates. He pulled up to the side of the road in his blinged out SUV and when I explained why I needed the money, he hesitated, not wanting to get into legal trouble - since he was a lawyer and could be disbarred.
Eventually I promised I'd use my earnings to pay for his daughter's wedding cake. She was to be married on Tuesday - New Year's eve - and here it was Saturday and he had no ideas.
I had needed the money from hooking in the first place to pay for another special event cake - a friend was graduating - so I told him I'd just get an extra cake from the same place.
Relieved, he handed me the fifty, we embraced, he drove away, and a very pretty female police officer arrested me for intent to engage in prostitution.
I told her, tearfully, that I never got out much, just worked long hours, certainly had not spent much time downtown, that I didn't understand what was happening and so probably needed a lawyer. She nodded, smiled. It was a very genial arrest.
After I'd been booked, given a hearing date, and released, I began textbook grieving my arrest.
Bargaining - or as I like to call it, scheming: What could I say to explain my actions that would be plausible and obscure my true intention to sell sex for money?
Denial and anger: What had actually happened? I got money from a friend. Is what I had done actually illegal? Can you be arrested for INTENDING to do anything you have not actually done? I probably would have chickened out anyway. How could the police possibly predict the future?
I also cried a lot - sadness - and of course, never got to acceptance.
Meanwhile there was the small matter of the cakes. Now in this bizarre juxtaposition of two unprecedented anxieties dream you might think the problem was that between my time-consuming arrest and the chilling effect it had presumably had on my new revenue stream there was no cash or time to buy the cakes.
Not so, dear logical reader, for this is my brain on a greyhound (the drink AND the bus I traveled home from Christmas on - ha! a twofer!).
Both cakes sat chilling in my fridge when I arrived home. The problem was that they had not aged well. The events - wedding and graduation - were to take place in two days' time and already, after only 24 hours storage, the one with strawberry mousse and wafer towers was starting to ridify and the one with fresh flowers was beginning to wilt.
Looking at them now, these cakes that had seemed such perfect solutions to the tasks I had signed on for, such fitting tributes to the solemn events, now looked cheap and old.
How could I possibly find replacements that were better over a holiday with such short notice?
I woke - Never so relieved to be hungover and dehydrated.
It is 440 am and I can honestly say I've never had the pleasure before now of waking up in a cold sweat and realizing oh thank GOD I wasn't in charge of those two wedding cakes on the way to my prostitution court date.
So here is the dealio.
I rode a bus downtown with a friend who was going to teach me how to turn tricks. But when I arrived she said I was wearing the wrong boots. I needed thigh highs with a $50 price tag.
So I called in a favor with a friend who was also the father of one of my labmates. He pulled up to the side of the road in his blinged out SUV and when I explained why I needed the money, he hesitated, not wanting to get into legal trouble - since he was a lawyer and could be disbarred.
Eventually I promised I'd use my earnings to pay for his daughter's wedding cake. She was to be married on Tuesday - New Year's eve - and here it was Saturday and he had no ideas.
I had needed the money from hooking in the first place to pay for another special event cake - a friend was graduating - so I told him I'd just get an extra cake from the same place.
Relieved, he handed me the fifty, we embraced, he drove away, and a very pretty female police officer arrested me for intent to engage in prostitution.
I told her, tearfully, that I never got out much, just worked long hours, certainly had not spent much time downtown, that I didn't understand what was happening and so probably needed a lawyer. She nodded, smiled. It was a very genial arrest.
After I'd been booked, given a hearing date, and released, I began textbook grieving my arrest.
Bargaining - or as I like to call it, scheming: What could I say to explain my actions that would be plausible and obscure my true intention to sell sex for money?
Denial and anger: What had actually happened? I got money from a friend. Is what I had done actually illegal? Can you be arrested for INTENDING to do anything you have not actually done? I probably would have chickened out anyway. How could the police possibly predict the future?
I also cried a lot - sadness - and of course, never got to acceptance.
Meanwhile there was the small matter of the cakes. Now in this bizarre juxtaposition of two unprecedented anxieties dream you might think the problem was that between my time-consuming arrest and the chilling effect it had presumably had on my new revenue stream there was no cash or time to buy the cakes.
Not so, dear logical reader, for this is my brain on a greyhound (the drink AND the bus I traveled home from Christmas on - ha! a twofer!).
Both cakes sat chilling in my fridge when I arrived home. The problem was that they had not aged well. The events - wedding and graduation - were to take place in two days' time and already, after only 24 hours storage, the one with strawberry mousse and wafer towers was starting to ridify and the one with fresh flowers was beginning to wilt.
Looking at them now, these cakes that had seemed such perfect solutions to the tasks I had signed on for, such fitting tributes to the solemn events, now looked cheap and old.
How could I possibly find replacements that were better over a holiday with such short notice?
I woke - Never so relieved to be hungover and dehydrated.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Dream memory loss
I just spent hours doing... I was in... We were trying to ...
I have no idea. All I remember is that it felt really, really important.
I have no idea. All I remember is that it felt really, really important.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Big brother is watching - and so is everyone else, apparently
Last night I dreamt that my mother - who was actually Lea Thompson, the actress who plays Kathryn Kennish on "Switched at Birth" - had begun to suspect that our city was the site of a reality TV show.
To test her theory my mother rented a glider and began taking off from the shore of the lake behind our house, each time landing further and further out, in an effort to find the border, that false horizon.
Once you had that thought, the signs were everywhere. I went exploring under bridges, to see how the waterways connected. I found a young Asian lesbian couple living under the Hawthorne street bridge, nested up atop the power lines that run underneath from bank to bank. They were very hungry and cold. I gave them a shortbread cookie and $42 which was all the money in my wallet.
They told me a balding red-haired man had tricked them into a threesome and when they wanted out he ruined their credit. They couldn't hold down jobs or get an apartment. Their description reminded me of a friend I'd made just the day before - an older, wealthy man who I'd met at some supermarket and who I had invited over for dinner to discuss a business proposition. Both girls said they'd rather live on the street than by his rules.
When I looked over the edge of the bridge strut, I could see the river was partitioned by high fences midway between every bridge. It would be impossible to ride a boat or swim through the water.
Three hundred yards to the right, I spotted a classmate from grad school and his two young boys standing on the bank of the river underneath another bridge. They were skipping stones, hitting the fences. The stacatto "thunk" "thunk" as the stones reached their mark made me feel light-headed and claustrophobic.
I re-traced my steps, getting lost several time along the way. When I got home I could barely recognize it. Before it had been a 70s era split level home, and now it was a bungalow with a big yard and rose bushes.
A bouquet of daisies lay discarded in the front yard, and the cellophane wrapper was crawling with spiders and ants. I picked it up gingerly by one end and carried the package of insects and flowers to the trash.
The businessman's car was parked in the driveway. I could hear scuffling from inside the partly open front door. Someone had probably let my indoor cat out. I nudged the door open with my foot and began inching inside. From no identifiable source, soft bars of suspenseful music swelled.
To test her theory my mother rented a glider and began taking off from the shore of the lake behind our house, each time landing further and further out, in an effort to find the border, that false horizon.
Once you had that thought, the signs were everywhere. I went exploring under bridges, to see how the waterways connected. I found a young Asian lesbian couple living under the Hawthorne street bridge, nested up atop the power lines that run underneath from bank to bank. They were very hungry and cold. I gave them a shortbread cookie and $42 which was all the money in my wallet.
They told me a balding red-haired man had tricked them into a threesome and when they wanted out he ruined their credit. They couldn't hold down jobs or get an apartment. Their description reminded me of a friend I'd made just the day before - an older, wealthy man who I'd met at some supermarket and who I had invited over for dinner to discuss a business proposition. Both girls said they'd rather live on the street than by his rules.
When I looked over the edge of the bridge strut, I could see the river was partitioned by high fences midway between every bridge. It would be impossible to ride a boat or swim through the water.
Three hundred yards to the right, I spotted a classmate from grad school and his two young boys standing on the bank of the river underneath another bridge. They were skipping stones, hitting the fences. The stacatto "thunk" "thunk" as the stones reached their mark made me feel light-headed and claustrophobic.
I re-traced my steps, getting lost several time along the way. When I got home I could barely recognize it. Before it had been a 70s era split level home, and now it was a bungalow with a big yard and rose bushes.
A bouquet of daisies lay discarded in the front yard, and the cellophane wrapper was crawling with spiders and ants. I picked it up gingerly by one end and carried the package of insects and flowers to the trash.
The businessman's car was parked in the driveway. I could hear scuffling from inside the partly open front door. Someone had probably let my indoor cat out. I nudged the door open with my foot and began inching inside. From no identifiable source, soft bars of suspenseful music swelled.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Sunset triptych
Three times last night I drove a vehicle - first, a personal car, then a jeep and finally a school bus full of students - out on a coastal road to see the sunset. And all three times the road was washed out at the last minute.
I came around the same corner, nearing the same break in the trees, through which we could see the same glorious pink and orange sky breaking over the ocean horizon and each time it was a beautiful surprise. And each time, right before we achieved the perfect viewpoint, I was suddenly up to my axles in water.
All around me, cars floundered in the rapidly rising water. Each time the anxiety was palpable; we held our communal breath till everyone had managed to turn and retreat back down the road.
The worst and best was the bus, because it commanded such a good view. The tall tires gave us more protection from the water, so I wasn't worried we would stall out. But I and all the passengers in the bus could see other cars in precisely that predicament and so we worried collectively that we might not all make it.
Also the bus had such a huge turning radius, the reorientation was agonizingly slow. It was like trying to steer an elephant in quicksand. I knew I would make it and yet I was rigid with tension as we maneuvered the bus through the water and around other cars, and so relieved when we all finally began heading back the way we had come.
I came around the same corner, nearing the same break in the trees, through which we could see the same glorious pink and orange sky breaking over the ocean horizon and each time it was a beautiful surprise. And each time, right before we achieved the perfect viewpoint, I was suddenly up to my axles in water.
All around me, cars floundered in the rapidly rising water. Each time the anxiety was palpable; we held our communal breath till everyone had managed to turn and retreat back down the road.
The worst and best was the bus, because it commanded such a good view. The tall tires gave us more protection from the water, so I wasn't worried we would stall out. But I and all the passengers in the bus could see other cars in precisely that predicament and so we worried collectively that we might not all make it.
Also the bus had such a huge turning radius, the reorientation was agonizingly slow. It was like trying to steer an elephant in quicksand. I knew I would make it and yet I was rigid with tension as we maneuvered the bus through the water and around other cars, and so relieved when we all finally began heading back the way we had come.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
It's all relative
I dreamt that I was visiting a cousin in England who was a physicist. He was young - in his late 20s - and had written a very popular book about a tachyon in which he credited my father for "intellectual contributions". My father was/is a mathematician and reading his name on the byline filled me with pride.
My cousin's career and literary acclaim rested on the idea that a particle people had known about for a few decades had, under some circumstances, a shelf life. It was a very, very, very long shelf life, on the order of millenia. But it explained why all over the globe, million year old petroleum was accumulating a strange fuzzy goo and slowly going bad.
I read about his book in the basement while a parade of my distant relatives inched through a line leading to a cash register. Instead of buying anything, as each family member approached the cashier, they would share a few sentences of the most significant events in their lives for the last 20 years. This was for my benefit so that I could quickly catch up.
Two of them on my mom's side were 30 something cousins I had never met - a reformed biker-turned plumber with tattooed arm sleaves confessed that he'd recently lost his born-again faith of fifteen years; a large blonde woman explained that ever since her conversion to evangelical Christianity she'd gained and been unable to lose 50 pounds. Unlike the biker, her faith was intact.
My cousin's career and literary acclaim rested on the idea that a particle people had known about for a few decades had, under some circumstances, a shelf life. It was a very, very, very long shelf life, on the order of millenia. But it explained why all over the globe, million year old petroleum was accumulating a strange fuzzy goo and slowly going bad.
I read about his book in the basement while a parade of my distant relatives inched through a line leading to a cash register. Instead of buying anything, as each family member approached the cashier, they would share a few sentences of the most significant events in their lives for the last 20 years. This was for my benefit so that I could quickly catch up.
Two of them on my mom's side were 30 something cousins I had never met - a reformed biker-turned plumber with tattooed arm sleaves confessed that he'd recently lost his born-again faith of fifteen years; a large blonde woman explained that ever since her conversion to evangelical Christianity she'd gained and been unable to lose 50 pounds. Unlike the biker, her faith was intact.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
A rose bi any other name might be straight (radio edited version)
*A warning to readers. This post contains sexual content and violence, though never at the same time. While explicit language is avoided, it describes a specific instance of domestic violence and discusses the effects of child abuse. The existence of consensual adult sex is mentioned and specific acts are evoked or implied in some cases.*
I recently was talking to someone who threw out the term "bi lady" when referring to me.
Let's set aside "lady" right off the bat - my mother used to despair of my distaste for that word. To me it evokes someone mature and delicate, who can carry off a decent impression of what women are expected to be.
I certainly read as a straight girl and I guess I'm achieving some state of maturity, reluctantly, in my 40s. But I only just learned this year how to use hair product; dressing up is fun but it feels like I'm in drag; and I've been told by more than one person that I walk like a man. "Actually," said one, when asked for clarification, "it's more like a duck."
As for "bi", this is a label I alternately struggled with and embraced for a decade, before finally not really needing it anymore. I think when you finally reach a state of self acceptance, the definition you've been dancing with melts into "I am a human."
I grew up pretty uneventfully as a straight girl. I crushed on boys from K-12, and dated guys from age 16 - 26. I had sex with my first serious boyfriend after 8 months of dating; I was 17. He was a virgin, and a repressed Catholic boy, so it was sweet and awkward and perfect. I became a serial monogamist, average relationship 2-4 years, time between relationships anywhere between minus 5 days to 6 months.
One summer in my 20s, during one of those fun economic dips where lots of actual adult people lost jobs and houses, but which affected me mainly because nobody had full time well paid work for college kids, one of my four barely-above-minimum-wage jobs was a 10h a week gig at a restaurant.
I became friends with a group of 3 other women - 2 servers and another busser like me. We had breaks together, during which we laughed until we cried. I came away from our meetings high, buzzing.
The other busperson, let's call her A, lived four blocks from me, which in sprawling Canadian suburbia is like meeting someone in the grocery store and discovering that they live in your bathroom and you just never noticed.
Over coffee one day, A confessed to me that she was a lesbian. I was the second person she had ever told and she was terrified. I had never met a gay person before, at least not to my knowledge.
Of course, logic dictates that in two decades I had most certainly met dozens of queers already, probably hundreds, and the burnished gold tags, "fag", "dyke", or "tranny" simply hadn't been properly affixed to their lapels that day.
If this seems unbelievable, it may help to know that I was a serious, studious honors student and so were all my closest friends. I wasn't rebelling or exploring the world or talking about much of anything outside of academics; I was single-mindedly pursuing the highest score on every test set before me. I didn't even drink much until grad school in my late 20s. So I was still pretty sheltered.
So when A confided in me, I was shocked and thrilled. I felt special for having been trusted with this revelation and protective of A, who was in no way comfortable with her stated identity.
The first person she had told was her mother, a tall, stocky outspoken social activist who wrote petitions for international women's rights, demonstrated for worker's rights and was very fond of the underdog. Bizarrely, this passion for justice in the world was accompanied by a tyranical need for control over her own family.
When A's mother heard this news, she screamed, "no," over and over; she kicked and hit my friend, throwing her against the wall, treatment that I gathered was not unprecedented although this particular trigger was unique.
The reality of homophobia, both internal and external, is that family matters. It's a lot like rape, or any other violence perpetrated against the "weak".
Media, news and social education efforts related to violence - when I was growing up at least - all focused on stranger danger. Women pursued by anonymous figures in parking lots; children lured into cars with candy; femmy men beaten outside of discoteques by bands of roving thugs.
I think this external focus is still pretty mainstream. We want to believe that violation is separate from "normal" society, it's outside of us, lurking in the shadows, when in fact most women are raped by an acquaintance, most child abuse happens in the home, most queer people initially face judgement or outright rejection by parents, siblings and peers, and it is at least as scarring as anything that could be perpetrated on you by a stranger.
It's so confusing to be hurt by someone you need; the anger you feel is polluted by fear and guilt and shame and grief and there is no place to run to for support. Daily you are confronted with your abuser. Daily you think about killing them. Daily you long for their gentleness and nurturing. If only you get it right today, they'll finally love you without hurting you.
This person is not always a man, contrary to the women-are-nurturing, men-are-violent stereotypes. Tangentially, the dykes-are-raped-women theory is a handy way to dismiss an entire inconvenient group as simply victims of all that stranger danger but it just ain't that simple, world, sorry.
But I digress, and I'm sorry because my how-I-turned-queer story is largely upbeat and a little hot so I will return to the regularly scheduled coming out.
So there was another woman in the group, B, who was tall, blonde and butch - (not the term I would have used at the time since I had never heard it) - and I was crushing hard on her - (not the term I would have used at the time since I had no idea I was attracted to women) -
so: I just really really really looked forward to seeing her. all day long. every single day.
B invited me to go shopping after work with her "roommate" S, a short blonde butchier version of B. We drove to the mall, me seated in the back of their sweet little convertible while they discussed the day's purchase (blender and clothing) and their future plans - S was planning to enter the police academy and B was trying to find a career that was more stable and better paid than waiting tables.
I remember thinking that I had never met roommates who were so close.
A couple of weeks later they had me over for dinner. I learned that A had also confided in them, which, they said, made sense since they were the only other lesbians A knew (picture me trying to hide that I was choking on my water).
Then they mentioned D, the fourth member of our merry band of restauranteurs. She was in the middle of a divorce. She had two kids. She was going back to dating women. Thankfully for my fragile ego and perceived coolness factor, they misinterpreted my second bout of water inhalation, and explained that she wasn't gay, just bi.
Oh right. Of course. That explains everything.
(WTF.)
I had never heard this term before. I knew homosexuals existed and had no problem with it apart from being too sheltered to recognize them without a "hey I'm gay" handshake. I had certainly never questioned my own sexuality, because I liked men.
The rest of the conversation was similar to my coffee date with A. They congratulated me for being open minded and welcomed me into the ranks of their straight allies and I was So Happy to be able to offer something important to this gorgeous muscular funny woman (and her girlfriend).
I never told B that I was bi. First of all I would have had to hand back my straight ally status, which was still warm from the oven and was the most significant bond we had.
Second I just didn't trust it. Was I really bi? Was I just imagining it? Was I merely saying it to get attention? Certainly I enjoyed the reaction it got from men. Besides, I had never dated a woman. Frankly the women I was drawn to - beautiful, funny, outspoken - intimidated me.
I knew how to be passive and seductive and attract men. I had NO IDEA how to approach women. Or what to do with them. I had learned how to operate the machinery on a guy, which came as naturally as breathing and was a pretty easy lesson -
(- as an aside, I will draw this further parallel: men are like cars; once you've driven one, you're pretty much skilled enough to drive them all. Women are like motorcycles - the center of gravity, seating position, acceleration and responsiveness, clutch distance, brake sensitivity, all varies so much that if you take out a sporty bike after only driving cruisers your whole life, most likely you're going to die in a fiery crash..... BUT I DIGRESS SOME MORE)
- but I wasn't all that comfortable with my own anatomy. So what to do with all these warm fuzzy feelings when I looked at naked ladies... (now THERE is a good use of the word lady.)
Even from a young age I had far more fantasies about women than men although I suspect this has a little to do with social constructs about what the genders are for: women are passive and accomodating, men are active and aggressive, women receive sexual attention, men actually experience pleasure... without even reflecting on it at all, I identified with male sexuality.
I am not a very private person unless I try really, really hard, and my peers were science and math geeks ie frighteningly smart, unconventional, socially awkward, mildly autistic and utterly without judgement or mainstream expectations.
So pretty much all my friends knew I was bi by the time I was 24 even though I STILL hadn't actually even so much as kissed a woman.
My attempt at flaunting gender stereotypes extended to buying a motorcycle, riding around in skimpy dresses and confusing people at gas stations by taking off my helmet and allowing my long dark hair to cascade out.
Then I dated this guy, let's call him M.
Within a week of dating he confided that he thought he was bi - he loved women but he fantasized all the time about being with men.
What happened next reminds me of one of the many similarities I can draw between sex and dancing. Traditionally in partner dance there is a lead and a follow. Typically the leader is the man, the follow a woman, a convention I obeyed when I started dancing.
Only a few months into dancing, I realized I wanted to teach and since you have to be able to demo both roles, I had to learn how to lead. Which is how I discovered that I love leading in dance just as much as I like to follow.
Beginning dancers tend to stick to one role and are often quite freaked out by the notion of switching. But if you spend any time in the dance world you will notice that really good leads do not find it emasculating to follow other good leads or switch roles with women; they recognize it makes them better dancers.
Really good follows already have picked up some of the skills needed to lead, and have some basic interest in leading if only to show their non-dancing friends how it's done and convince yet more people to drink the kool-aid.
And there are some folks who just want to do the unconventional role all the time. Women who prefer to lead; men who prefer to follow.
And so it is with sex. Though that is a far more taboo switch. I had become pretty bored with straight sex, and if I hadn't met M, might eventually have concluded that I wasn't bi at all but actually a lesbian. Instead I discovered that what was missing wasn't some specific anatomy. It was the freedom to play well outside of the missionary position and my role as a passive sperm recipient.
In the meantime I met a woman who was in the middle of a nasty divorce and custody battle over her two year old daughter; her ex-seminarian Catholic husband had cheated on her with his secretary and she had joined a woman's group to cope with her anger and grief, which dug up all sorts of stuff about childhood neglect. I was in the same group to deal with my issues around intimacy with women.
Though she identified as straight, and never wavered in that label, when I drove her home one night, she declared she was drawn to me.
What happened between us was mostly a lot of nots
But she craved touch and I love touching people. One night she asked me to brush her hair. Her reaction was blissful. I stroked her head. She swooned. I stroked her arms. Her ribs. Her thighs. We both conceived of all this semi-erotic contact as "spiritual healing". I was like an unlicensed massage therapist freed from any culturally imposed limits on what appropriate touching might consist of.
One night we went dancing with her straight friends at a local cowboy bar. We danced together, not even close, more like girlhood friends holding hands and being silly. But I'm from such a conservative city and that was such a hick part of town that the energy we were sharing made the other patrons visibly uncomfortable and her friends made some passive aggressive comment about her being inappropriate.
Afterwards, she was feeling rebellious rather than cowed so we went home, got a little drunk and I took off her shirt, skipped first base, went straight to second.
Then I left for grad school in another country. Left my boyfriend and my friend-with-massage-benefits and my platonic friends and family and moved to a city where I didn't know anyone.
And started dating girls for reals.
I recently was talking to someone who threw out the term "bi lady" when referring to me.
Let's set aside "lady" right off the bat - my mother used to despair of my distaste for that word. To me it evokes someone mature and delicate, who can carry off a decent impression of what women are expected to be.
I certainly read as a straight girl and I guess I'm achieving some state of maturity, reluctantly, in my 40s. But I only just learned this year how to use hair product; dressing up is fun but it feels like I'm in drag; and I've been told by more than one person that I walk like a man. "Actually," said one, when asked for clarification, "it's more like a duck."
As for "bi", this is a label I alternately struggled with and embraced for a decade, before finally not really needing it anymore. I think when you finally reach a state of self acceptance, the definition you've been dancing with melts into "I am a human."
I grew up pretty uneventfully as a straight girl. I crushed on boys from K-12, and dated guys from age 16 - 26. I had sex with my first serious boyfriend after 8 months of dating; I was 17. He was a virgin, and a repressed Catholic boy, so it was sweet and awkward and perfect. I became a serial monogamist, average relationship 2-4 years, time between relationships anywhere between minus 5 days to 6 months.
One summer in my 20s, during one of those fun economic dips where lots of actual adult people lost jobs and houses, but which affected me mainly because nobody had full time well paid work for college kids, one of my four barely-above-minimum-wage jobs was a 10h a week gig at a restaurant.
I became friends with a group of 3 other women - 2 servers and another busser like me. We had breaks together, during which we laughed until we cried. I came away from our meetings high, buzzing.
The other busperson, let's call her A, lived four blocks from me, which in sprawling Canadian suburbia is like meeting someone in the grocery store and discovering that they live in your bathroom and you just never noticed.
Over coffee one day, A confessed to me that she was a lesbian. I was the second person she had ever told and she was terrified. I had never met a gay person before, at least not to my knowledge.
Of course, logic dictates that in two decades I had most certainly met dozens of queers already, probably hundreds, and the burnished gold tags, "fag", "dyke", or "tranny" simply hadn't been properly affixed to their lapels that day.
If this seems unbelievable, it may help to know that I was a serious, studious honors student and so were all my closest friends. I wasn't rebelling or exploring the world or talking about much of anything outside of academics; I was single-mindedly pursuing the highest score on every test set before me. I didn't even drink much until grad school in my late 20s. So I was still pretty sheltered.
So when A confided in me, I was shocked and thrilled. I felt special for having been trusted with this revelation and protective of A, who was in no way comfortable with her stated identity.
The first person she had told was her mother, a tall, stocky outspoken social activist who wrote petitions for international women's rights, demonstrated for worker's rights and was very fond of the underdog. Bizarrely, this passion for justice in the world was accompanied by a tyranical need for control over her own family.
When A's mother heard this news, she screamed, "no," over and over; she kicked and hit my friend, throwing her against the wall, treatment that I gathered was not unprecedented although this particular trigger was unique.
The reality of homophobia, both internal and external, is that family matters. It's a lot like rape, or any other violence perpetrated against the "weak".
Media, news and social education efforts related to violence - when I was growing up at least - all focused on stranger danger. Women pursued by anonymous figures in parking lots; children lured into cars with candy; femmy men beaten outside of discoteques by bands of roving thugs.
I think this external focus is still pretty mainstream. We want to believe that violation is separate from "normal" society, it's outside of us, lurking in the shadows, when in fact most women are raped by an acquaintance, most child abuse happens in the home, most queer people initially face judgement or outright rejection by parents, siblings and peers, and it is at least as scarring as anything that could be perpetrated on you by a stranger.
It's so confusing to be hurt by someone you need; the anger you feel is polluted by fear and guilt and shame and grief and there is no place to run to for support. Daily you are confronted with your abuser. Daily you think about killing them. Daily you long for their gentleness and nurturing. If only you get it right today, they'll finally love you without hurting you.
This person is not always a man, contrary to the women-are-nurturing, men-are-violent stereotypes. Tangentially, the dykes-are-raped-women theory is a handy way to dismiss an entire inconvenient group as simply victims of all that stranger danger but it just ain't that simple, world, sorry.
But I digress, and I'm sorry because my how-I-turned-queer story is largely upbeat and a little hot so I will return to the regularly scheduled coming out.
So there was another woman in the group, B, who was tall, blonde and butch - (not the term I would have used at the time since I had never heard it) - and I was crushing hard on her - (not the term I would have used at the time since I had no idea I was attracted to women) -
so: I just really really really looked forward to seeing her. all day long. every single day.
B invited me to go shopping after work with her "roommate" S, a short blonde butchier version of B. We drove to the mall, me seated in the back of their sweet little convertible while they discussed the day's purchase (blender and clothing) and their future plans - S was planning to enter the police academy and B was trying to find a career that was more stable and better paid than waiting tables.
I remember thinking that I had never met roommates who were so close.
A couple of weeks later they had me over for dinner. I learned that A had also confided in them, which, they said, made sense since they were the only other lesbians A knew (picture me trying to hide that I was choking on my water).
Then they mentioned D, the fourth member of our merry band of restauranteurs. She was in the middle of a divorce. She had two kids. She was going back to dating women. Thankfully for my fragile ego and perceived coolness factor, they misinterpreted my second bout of water inhalation, and explained that she wasn't gay, just bi.
Oh right. Of course. That explains everything.
(WTF.)
I had never heard this term before. I knew homosexuals existed and had no problem with it apart from being too sheltered to recognize them without a "hey I'm gay" handshake. I had certainly never questioned my own sexuality, because I liked men.
The rest of the conversation was similar to my coffee date with A. They congratulated me for being open minded and welcomed me into the ranks of their straight allies and I was So Happy to be able to offer something important to this gorgeous muscular funny woman (and her girlfriend).
And then a few months later I woke up early one morning and thought, "OHHHHHHHHH. WAIT."
I never told B that I was bi. First of all I would have had to hand back my straight ally status, which was still warm from the oven and was the most significant bond we had.
Second I just didn't trust it. Was I really bi? Was I just imagining it? Was I merely saying it to get attention? Certainly I enjoyed the reaction it got from men. Besides, I had never dated a woman. Frankly the women I was drawn to - beautiful, funny, outspoken - intimidated me.
I knew how to be passive and seductive and attract men. I had NO IDEA how to approach women. Or what to do with them. I had learned how to operate the machinery on a guy, which came as naturally as breathing and was a pretty easy lesson -
(- as an aside, I will draw this further parallel: men are like cars; once you've driven one, you're pretty much skilled enough to drive them all. Women are like motorcycles - the center of gravity, seating position, acceleration and responsiveness, clutch distance, brake sensitivity, all varies so much that if you take out a sporty bike after only driving cruisers your whole life, most likely you're going to die in a fiery crash..... BUT I DIGRESS SOME MORE)
- but I wasn't all that comfortable with my own anatomy. So what to do with all these warm fuzzy feelings when I looked at naked ladies... (now THERE is a good use of the word lady.)
Even from a young age I had far more fantasies about women than men although I suspect this has a little to do with social constructs about what the genders are for: women are passive and accomodating, men are active and aggressive, women receive sexual attention, men actually experience pleasure... without even reflecting on it at all, I identified with male sexuality.
I am not a very private person unless I try really, really hard, and my peers were science and math geeks ie frighteningly smart, unconventional, socially awkward, mildly autistic and utterly without judgement or mainstream expectations.
So pretty much all my friends knew I was bi by the time I was 24 even though I STILL hadn't actually even so much as kissed a woman.
My attempt at flaunting gender stereotypes extended to buying a motorcycle, riding around in skimpy dresses and confusing people at gas stations by taking off my helmet and allowing my long dark hair to cascade out.
Then I dated this guy, let's call him M.
Within a week of dating he confided that he thought he was bi - he loved women but he fantasized all the time about being with men.
What happened next reminds me of one of the many similarities I can draw between sex and dancing. Traditionally in partner dance there is a lead and a follow. Typically the leader is the man, the follow a woman, a convention I obeyed when I started dancing.
Only a few months into dancing, I realized I wanted to teach and since you have to be able to demo both roles, I had to learn how to lead. Which is how I discovered that I love leading in dance just as much as I like to follow.
Beginning dancers tend to stick to one role and are often quite freaked out by the notion of switching. But if you spend any time in the dance world you will notice that really good leads do not find it emasculating to follow other good leads or switch roles with women; they recognize it makes them better dancers.
Really good follows already have picked up some of the skills needed to lead, and have some basic interest in leading if only to show their non-dancing friends how it's done and convince yet more people to drink the kool-aid.
And there are some folks who just want to do the unconventional role all the time. Women who prefer to lead; men who prefer to follow.
And so it is with sex. Though that is a far more taboo switch. I had become pretty bored with straight sex, and if I hadn't met M, might eventually have concluded that I wasn't bi at all but actually a lesbian. Instead I discovered that what was missing wasn't some specific anatomy. It was the freedom to play well outside of the missionary position and my role as a passive sperm recipient.
In the meantime I met a woman who was in the middle of a nasty divorce and custody battle over her two year old daughter; her ex-seminarian Catholic husband had cheated on her with his secretary and she had joined a woman's group to cope with her anger and grief, which dug up all sorts of stuff about childhood neglect. I was in the same group to deal with my issues around intimacy with women.
Though she identified as straight, and never wavered in that label, when I drove her home one night, she declared she was drawn to me.
What happened between us was mostly a lot of nots
we did not have sex in any officially recognized way
we did not fall in love
we did not fall in love
we did not kiss
But she craved touch and I love touching people. One night she asked me to brush her hair. Her reaction was blissful. I stroked her head. She swooned. I stroked her arms. Her ribs. Her thighs. We both conceived of all this semi-erotic contact as "spiritual healing". I was like an unlicensed massage therapist freed from any culturally imposed limits on what appropriate touching might consist of.
One night we went dancing with her straight friends at a local cowboy bar. We danced together, not even close, more like girlhood friends holding hands and being silly. But I'm from such a conservative city and that was such a hick part of town that the energy we were sharing made the other patrons visibly uncomfortable and her friends made some passive aggressive comment about her being inappropriate.
Afterwards, she was feeling rebellious rather than cowed so we went home, got a little drunk and I took off her shirt, skipped first base, went straight to second.
Yup. Totally bi. I could have happily occupied that base all night but I got shy and went to bed - in a
separate room - completely frustrated and scared to go any further in
case she didn't like it.
Now, years later, I am certain she would have let me do just about anything to her. Oh, to have a time machine... Her reaction to what did happen was so sweet, taking it any further most likely would have just about stopped my heart.
Now, years later, I am certain she would have let me do just about anything to her. Oh, to have a time machine... Her reaction to what did happen was so sweet, taking it any further most likely would have just about stopped my heart.
Then I left for grad school in another country. Left my boyfriend and my friend-with-massage-benefits and my platonic friends and family and moved to a city where I didn't know anyone.
And started dating girls for reals.
Our top story this morning
Usually, first thing in the morning, my dreams, insights, worries, and tasks for the day, come tumbling at me all at once. Lately - for the last several nights at least - I've seen a news gazette in my head right before waking. Today it was a short two page insert, soft grey border and pale orange background, with gothic script for the title, and the headline: "Buy Longer Shoelaces"
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Opening bars to a short story
John Dale had a personal soundtrack. I don't mean that he got songs stuck in his head. What I mean is that at every major shift in the action of his life, classical music could be heard. Soft violins as he moved in for a drink at the water fountain. A crescendo if he lifted his four year old niece in the air to swing her around.
It might sound sort of romantic and exciting to have a musical score accompany your every waking move, but it was distracting at best. When he was alone, it made it hard to study. The minute he felt frustrated by a concept, the percussion section would kick in and then perhaps some horns.
At worst, waiting, for instance, outside the principal's office in eighth grade, because his teacher thought he was playing a prank to distract everyone on the math test with a rather loud rendition of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz, the fact that the opening bars to Prokiev's creepy Dance of the Knights began as soon as the principal opened his door to beckon him inside... well it didn't help his case.
John was expelled after a series of meetings in which he was directed ever-more-emphatically to reveal the location of the speakers he must have installed all over the school. "You!" his math teacher yelled in the last parent-teacher-principal meeting. "You are a MUSIC TERRORIST!!"
Eighth grade was probably the worst year of John's life. He was expelled from that school in September, and by several schools thereafter. By Christmas his parents had decided to home-school him.
He was examined by a veritable army of psychiatric and medical professionals, initially to break his antisocial speaker-hiding behavior, and then to see if his vocal cords could project complex orchestral music at a distance, and finally by a doctor who was also a priest and hypothesized that he was possessed by demonic spirits.
Eventually his parents gave up, accepted the utter lack of explanation for the phenomenon and John developed a kind of phobia about being in quiet spaces with strangers. A shrieking air-lifted toddler was unfazed by violin accompaniment, but adults in the library or a mall elevator were a different story. Though frequently they didn't identify him as the source of the music, their initially puzzled or annoyed expressions set him on edge.
It had not always been this way; John was a pretty normal kid, which is to say that music only played when adults set records on the retro turntable in his parents' den or popped a tape into the car stereo. When he was ten, he got his own discman as a birthday present. He listened amiably while pedaling his bike through the neighborhood after school or on the bus in the morning, but otherwise was not especially obsessed with music.
The trouble began when he hit puberty, the fall after his 13th birthday, just a few weeks into the eighth grade. At this point, he liked loud, energetic rock music - he was certainly not a classical music fan, nor had he ever had piano lesssons or played an instrument. In fact anyone who had approached his unusual condition with logic rather than assumptions would have immediately realized that even if he was the epicenter of the music, it was in no way a conscious result of his own actions or knowledge. John didn't know 99% of the pieces that played near him.
Some of it was recognizable, even to the layperson - the score of Beethoven's 9th or Rachmaninoff's Funeral March. Much of it was more obscure. But all of it was composed long before John was born and in many cases long after the composers and their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were dead.
It might sound sort of romantic and exciting to have a musical score accompany your every waking move, but it was distracting at best. When he was alone, it made it hard to study. The minute he felt frustrated by a concept, the percussion section would kick in and then perhaps some horns.
At worst, waiting, for instance, outside the principal's office in eighth grade, because his teacher thought he was playing a prank to distract everyone on the math test with a rather loud rendition of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz, the fact that the opening bars to Prokiev's creepy Dance of the Knights began as soon as the principal opened his door to beckon him inside... well it didn't help his case.
John was expelled after a series of meetings in which he was directed ever-more-emphatically to reveal the location of the speakers he must have installed all over the school. "You!" his math teacher yelled in the last parent-teacher-principal meeting. "You are a MUSIC TERRORIST!!"
Eighth grade was probably the worst year of John's life. He was expelled from that school in September, and by several schools thereafter. By Christmas his parents had decided to home-school him.
He was examined by a veritable army of psychiatric and medical professionals, initially to break his antisocial speaker-hiding behavior, and then to see if his vocal cords could project complex orchestral music at a distance, and finally by a doctor who was also a priest and hypothesized that he was possessed by demonic spirits.
Eventually his parents gave up, accepted the utter lack of explanation for the phenomenon and John developed a kind of phobia about being in quiet spaces with strangers. A shrieking air-lifted toddler was unfazed by violin accompaniment, but adults in the library or a mall elevator were a different story. Though frequently they didn't identify him as the source of the music, their initially puzzled or annoyed expressions set him on edge.
It had not always been this way; John was a pretty normal kid, which is to say that music only played when adults set records on the retro turntable in his parents' den or popped a tape into the car stereo. When he was ten, he got his own discman as a birthday present. He listened amiably while pedaling his bike through the neighborhood after school or on the bus in the morning, but otherwise was not especially obsessed with music.
The trouble began when he hit puberty, the fall after his 13th birthday, just a few weeks into the eighth grade. At this point, he liked loud, energetic rock music - he was certainly not a classical music fan, nor had he ever had piano lesssons or played an instrument. In fact anyone who had approached his unusual condition with logic rather than assumptions would have immediately realized that even if he was the epicenter of the music, it was in no way a conscious result of his own actions or knowledge. John didn't know 99% of the pieces that played near him.
Some of it was recognizable, even to the layperson - the score of Beethoven's 9th or Rachmaninoff's Funeral March. Much of it was more obscure. But all of it was composed long before John was born and in many cases long after the composers and their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were dead.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Biochem major terror with an ist
You see what I did there? In hopes of not getting flagged by immigration trolling for green card holders to remove from this country?
What could possibly drive me to risk being expelled from classroom USA? I had this dream last night that kept repeating, with minor variations, like a sort of narrative morse code.
I was a hovering spirit watching an 18 year old boy sign up for his first semester of classes, over and over, but each time at a different college.
The first time he was in his living room talking to his father about his upcoming freshman year at University of Texas. The boy was tall, broad-shouldered and well built but nerdy, with glasses and a pale, slightly sweaty complexion. He wore a white and brown striped button down shirt with chest pocket, from which an actual pencil, in a pocket protector, protruded. His hair flopped into his eyes every time he looked down at the catalog to write his latest selection onto a school form.
The next scene was a television newscast describing a grisly scene at the University of Texas. The date scrolling across the ticker was November 17. The boy's picture, a still taken of him in the same striped shirt, displayed in the upper right hand corner, was labeled simply, "suspect still at large."
Now the boy was wearing a purple button down shirt and talking amiably with his aunt while filling out a freshman schedule for fall quarter 2013. He had not aged. There were no signs of depression or psychosis in his eyes, simply curiosity and thoughtfulness as he pondered the academic year ahead, mapped out his near-future in strings of 7 character codes: Biol 160, Chem 112, Phot 110, Calc 199.
Next I was on a street corner. Two teenage girls stood at a bus stop, smoking, shivering in the cold. Beside them the newspaper vending machine front page showed a blown up image of the boy, purple shirt, glasses, staring expressionless into some school ID camera. The caption: "A troubled student at the University of Arkansas turned a simple fall day into a nightmare for hundreds of his Biochemistry classmates."
Back to another living room, this one in Somewhere, California. The boy. A new shirt, same glasses, visiting his big brother. Registration form for fall quarter classes at Pacific University.
I don't know how many times this dream repeated before I woke. Often enough to make an impression that lasted over an hour while I did Morning Chores before having time to sit down and write.
FTR I didn't feel a huge sense of terror or fear, or imminent danger. It was an emptier, colder emotion than that. If this dream was a message, it was not a literal one.
What could possibly drive me to risk being expelled from classroom USA? I had this dream last night that kept repeating, with minor variations, like a sort of narrative morse code.
I was a hovering spirit watching an 18 year old boy sign up for his first semester of classes, over and over, but each time at a different college.
The first time he was in his living room talking to his father about his upcoming freshman year at University of Texas. The boy was tall, broad-shouldered and well built but nerdy, with glasses and a pale, slightly sweaty complexion. He wore a white and brown striped button down shirt with chest pocket, from which an actual pencil, in a pocket protector, protruded. His hair flopped into his eyes every time he looked down at the catalog to write his latest selection onto a school form.
The next scene was a television newscast describing a grisly scene at the University of Texas. The date scrolling across the ticker was November 17. The boy's picture, a still taken of him in the same striped shirt, displayed in the upper right hand corner, was labeled simply, "suspect still at large."
Now the boy was wearing a purple button down shirt and talking amiably with his aunt while filling out a freshman schedule for fall quarter 2013. He had not aged. There were no signs of depression or psychosis in his eyes, simply curiosity and thoughtfulness as he pondered the academic year ahead, mapped out his near-future in strings of 7 character codes: Biol 160, Chem 112, Phot 110, Calc 199.
Next I was on a street corner. Two teenage girls stood at a bus stop, smoking, shivering in the cold. Beside them the newspaper vending machine front page showed a blown up image of the boy, purple shirt, glasses, staring expressionless into some school ID camera. The caption: "A troubled student at the University of Arkansas turned a simple fall day into a nightmare for hundreds of his Biochemistry classmates."
Back to another living room, this one in Somewhere, California. The boy. A new shirt, same glasses, visiting his big brother. Registration form for fall quarter classes at Pacific University.
I don't know how many times this dream repeated before I woke. Often enough to make an impression that lasted over an hour while I did Morning Chores before having time to sit down and write.
FTR I didn't feel a huge sense of terror or fear, or imminent danger. It was an emptier, colder emotion than that. If this dream was a message, it was not a literal one.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Black forest cake quest
You know those dreams where you have to pee and you spend the entire time searching for a bathroom but then the surfaces are made of slime and it's too disgusting to sit down, or the door is locked, or the walls turn transparent halfway through and you have to leave or there are monsters in the tank all of which turns out to be actually great since then you have to WAKE UP to accomplish your goal?
I just realized where you think this is going but you are wrong. The point is that besides saving you from wetting the bed, these dreams are anxiety dreams. Similar to the dreams where you have to write a test but you show up in your pyjamas without a pencil and the classroom is across campus through a labyrinth, or the dreams where you are late for your flight and can't find your passport and discover the airport was moved to another city and your car won't start so you have to steal one...
How can you be certain it's an anxiety dream? There is no resolution. You never catch your flight. You never locate the classroom. You never find a suitable restroom.
Last night I dreamt that my impossible quest was about cake. I was on my way to a party at a hotel but I had forgotten to bring anything and got lost in the corridors. I ended up taking a long series of flights of stairs and at the very bottom was a broken water fountain holding up a half eaten Black Forest cake.
To one side was the hotel kitchen; staff bustled in and out of the swinging doors, carrying in dirty dishes and pushing full carts out to the elevator. On the other side was a row of five computer poker booths manned by patrons with bottomless glasses of lager, who, other than their playing hand on the digital screen, looked like they hadn't moved in several years.
The cake was moist and fresh but sat at an angle in the fountain so the cream had collected on one side, making the whole thing lopsided. I figured it was being trashed. Next to it sat a knife and three clean plates. I stood there for half an hour, waiting for the hubbub to subside long enough for me to sneak in and cut off some pieces to bring to the party.
Just as there was a lull in activity, the cake moved a fraction of an inch and imploded, falling into the fountain. I was horrified. All that fresh cream and moist chocolate wasted. I went back up the stairs determined to find the party but instead found one of my friends, a tall fat gamer named Jesse. He looked more like a retired lumberjack than a computer nerd. He carried a beer in one hand and an ipad in the other, managing somehow to carry on playing his game while drinking beer, walking through the hotel and holding up his end of a conversation.
At one point he also succeeded in groping my breast in a friendly non-threatening way all without putting any of his accessories down. When I shook my head he shrugged and said, "a guy's gotta try, you know?" I said no, I did not really know that, but he was so amiable and nonchalant that I couldn't muster any outrage.
I told Jesse about the fountain. He wanted to see it so I re-traced my route down the stairs. Lo and behold, a new cake sat there, entirely untouched. It was even more lopsided than the first. Now I was less sure it was trash and considered that the place was just so busy that they had taken to setting cakes on any surface available.
I still wanted slices of cake and now it was a matter of stealing it, rather than a noble effort to prevent waste. Again, I waited for a break in the steady stream of hotel bussers and bellhops. Now there also were a couple of homeless people lying on the carpet, which was littered with candy bar wrappers and empty packs of cigarettes. Jesse and I moved in slowly, like cheetahs fixed on prey. He was surprisingly graceful for such a big guy. I mentioned it and he said, oh, yeah, he took ballet as a kid. People are full of surprises.
We were inches from the target when it happened again: the cake shifted, and the four tier pastry came down like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. Jesse and I locked eyes, shared the same thought. We dug into the top of the cake, bringing up handful of somewhat intact double layered cake and set it on plates. I grabbed a slice and shoved it into his mouth. He threw the piece he was holding directly into my face, and I reflexively closed my eyes.
When I had cleaned up enough to see again, Jesse was gone, along with the two plates of cake we had salvaged. A fresh cake sat in the fountain, this time inside a cardboard box. I took the knife and carefully cut a perfect wedge, setting it onto the last plate. I turned to go but at the top of the stairs I looked carefully at what I had acquired. Like all the cakes before, this one was lopsided. I had cut mostly a wedge of cream.
I turned to go back, thinking I could cut a piece out of the opposite side and balance it out. I lost my footing and the cake went up into the air; when it landed the cream sprayed off the plate in all directions, settling back down like a melted snowman in a puddle around the plate. I realized that I had all the cream from the cake in that piece. Even if I went back down the stairs, the cake would be completely dry.
I just realized where you think this is going but you are wrong. The point is that besides saving you from wetting the bed, these dreams are anxiety dreams. Similar to the dreams where you have to write a test but you show up in your pyjamas without a pencil and the classroom is across campus through a labyrinth, or the dreams where you are late for your flight and can't find your passport and discover the airport was moved to another city and your car won't start so you have to steal one...
How can you be certain it's an anxiety dream? There is no resolution. You never catch your flight. You never locate the classroom. You never find a suitable restroom.
Last night I dreamt that my impossible quest was about cake. I was on my way to a party at a hotel but I had forgotten to bring anything and got lost in the corridors. I ended up taking a long series of flights of stairs and at the very bottom was a broken water fountain holding up a half eaten Black Forest cake.
To one side was the hotel kitchen; staff bustled in and out of the swinging doors, carrying in dirty dishes and pushing full carts out to the elevator. On the other side was a row of five computer poker booths manned by patrons with bottomless glasses of lager, who, other than their playing hand on the digital screen, looked like they hadn't moved in several years.
The cake was moist and fresh but sat at an angle in the fountain so the cream had collected on one side, making the whole thing lopsided. I figured it was being trashed. Next to it sat a knife and three clean plates. I stood there for half an hour, waiting for the hubbub to subside long enough for me to sneak in and cut off some pieces to bring to the party.
Just as there was a lull in activity, the cake moved a fraction of an inch and imploded, falling into the fountain. I was horrified. All that fresh cream and moist chocolate wasted. I went back up the stairs determined to find the party but instead found one of my friends, a tall fat gamer named Jesse. He looked more like a retired lumberjack than a computer nerd. He carried a beer in one hand and an ipad in the other, managing somehow to carry on playing his game while drinking beer, walking through the hotel and holding up his end of a conversation.
At one point he also succeeded in groping my breast in a friendly non-threatening way all without putting any of his accessories down. When I shook my head he shrugged and said, "a guy's gotta try, you know?" I said no, I did not really know that, but he was so amiable and nonchalant that I couldn't muster any outrage.
I told Jesse about the fountain. He wanted to see it so I re-traced my route down the stairs. Lo and behold, a new cake sat there, entirely untouched. It was even more lopsided than the first. Now I was less sure it was trash and considered that the place was just so busy that they had taken to setting cakes on any surface available.
I still wanted slices of cake and now it was a matter of stealing it, rather than a noble effort to prevent waste. Again, I waited for a break in the steady stream of hotel bussers and bellhops. Now there also were a couple of homeless people lying on the carpet, which was littered with candy bar wrappers and empty packs of cigarettes. Jesse and I moved in slowly, like cheetahs fixed on prey. He was surprisingly graceful for such a big guy. I mentioned it and he said, oh, yeah, he took ballet as a kid. People are full of surprises.
We were inches from the target when it happened again: the cake shifted, and the four tier pastry came down like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. Jesse and I locked eyes, shared the same thought. We dug into the top of the cake, bringing up handful of somewhat intact double layered cake and set it on plates. I grabbed a slice and shoved it into his mouth. He threw the piece he was holding directly into my face, and I reflexively closed my eyes.
When I had cleaned up enough to see again, Jesse was gone, along with the two plates of cake we had salvaged. A fresh cake sat in the fountain, this time inside a cardboard box. I took the knife and carefully cut a perfect wedge, setting it onto the last plate. I turned to go but at the top of the stairs I looked carefully at what I had acquired. Like all the cakes before, this one was lopsided. I had cut mostly a wedge of cream.
I turned to go back, thinking I could cut a piece out of the opposite side and balance it out. I lost my footing and the cake went up into the air; when it landed the cream sprayed off the plate in all directions, settling back down like a melted snowman in a puddle around the plate. I realized that I had all the cream from the cake in that piece. Even if I went back down the stairs, the cake would be completely dry.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Saying yes
I dreamt that I was in a movie starring Robin Williams in which he plays a man who spends a year saying yes to everything - yes to any idea that pops into his head, yes to any opportunity that presents itself, yes to any offer or request by another person - yes to anything as long as it's not lethal, immoral or impossible.
Initially he's in a giant museum gym and he is the only adult playing on all the equipment while his best friend, a blonde woman in a business suit, looks on - he swings on the log suspended fifty feet in the air (over a net). He walks through the silly string fountain and climbs the forever stairs, a bedazzled escelator that moves downwards at the same rate as the stairs move up.
In the next scene his body has youthened to the age of thirteen; he stands on a dais in the middle of a town square wearing silk pyjamas and self-consciously adjusts his page-boy wig. His mother points Vanna White-style as a horse-drawn chariot moves through the center of the square, stopping right in front of him. His mother pulls a long black leather Matrix style jacket out of the chariot and holds it up. He smiles, nods yes to the costume and moves foward to assume the role of superhero.
Initially he's in a giant museum gym and he is the only adult playing on all the equipment while his best friend, a blonde woman in a business suit, looks on - he swings on the log suspended fifty feet in the air (over a net). He walks through the silly string fountain and climbs the forever stairs, a bedazzled escelator that moves downwards at the same rate as the stairs move up.
In the next scene his body has youthened to the age of thirteen; he stands on a dais in the middle of a town square wearing silk pyjamas and self-consciously adjusts his page-boy wig. His mother points Vanna White-style as a horse-drawn chariot moves through the center of the square, stopping right in front of him. His mother pulls a long black leather Matrix style jacket out of the chariot and holds it up. He smiles, nods yes to the costume and moves foward to assume the role of superhero.
Monday, October 14, 2013
The "ick" factor
Last night I drank six glasses of wine. Well, I "tasted" six wines. But the pours were generous and the wine was tasty and I probably drank a total of three actual glasses of wine.
The rather astounding thing is that I am alive this morning, since red wine usually gives me a hangover about half an hour after drinking. Perhaps it is because I made a point of drinking six gallons of water with my wine.
Still, it seems the red wine was intent on leaving some mark on me. Instead of light sensitivity and nausea, I had the most repulsive dream in recent memory.
About three weeks ago I had viral pinkeye. It's a very special feeling to be an adult with an infection nobody else has had since they were 8.
Last night I dreamt that I was examining my eyes in a mirror to see if the redness had gone down. I noticed an eyelash and when I went to remove it, the eyelash moved. Then I saw another. And another. Both eyes were filled with small dark worms swimming just below the conjunctiva.
It was possibly the most horrifying moment of my waking or sleeping life.
I ran into the main room of the house where my roommates - a couple with a child, and a cousin who was crashing with us - were making breakfast. I was talking too fast, and crying; nobody could really understand what I was saying. The mom of the couple tried to hug me and I violently shoved her back.
"Promise me you will wash your hands immediately," I told her. "Don't touch me till I'm better."
It took some doing to convey what I had experienced and I don't think they really believed me at first. After getting promises that everyone would treat me like a biohazard I returned to my room to google "eye worms".
And thankfully, finally, woke up into the reality where my body is not a super disgusting harbor for creatures of nightmare.
Thank you half-hearted Seattle morning sun. Eventually you did your job. I wish you could have moved just a little faster.
The rather astounding thing is that I am alive this morning, since red wine usually gives me a hangover about half an hour after drinking. Perhaps it is because I made a point of drinking six gallons of water with my wine.
Still, it seems the red wine was intent on leaving some mark on me. Instead of light sensitivity and nausea, I had the most repulsive dream in recent memory.
About three weeks ago I had viral pinkeye. It's a very special feeling to be an adult with an infection nobody else has had since they were 8.
Last night I dreamt that I was examining my eyes in a mirror to see if the redness had gone down. I noticed an eyelash and when I went to remove it, the eyelash moved. Then I saw another. And another. Both eyes were filled with small dark worms swimming just below the conjunctiva.
It was possibly the most horrifying moment of my waking or sleeping life.
I ran into the main room of the house where my roommates - a couple with a child, and a cousin who was crashing with us - were making breakfast. I was talking too fast, and crying; nobody could really understand what I was saying. The mom of the couple tried to hug me and I violently shoved her back.
"Promise me you will wash your hands immediately," I told her. "Don't touch me till I'm better."
It took some doing to convey what I had experienced and I don't think they really believed me at first. After getting promises that everyone would treat me like a biohazard I returned to my room to google "eye worms".
And thankfully, finally, woke up into the reality where my body is not a super disgusting harbor for creatures of nightmare.
Thank you half-hearted Seattle morning sun. Eventually you did your job. I wish you could have moved just a little faster.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Rocketship and art: a horror film in two acts
It starts in a rocket. There are thousands of people buckling themselves into seats ready for flight, on dozens of floors connected by a single central vertical ladder that will eventually be our escape route. The older people are assigned to the bottom floors - the assumption is they will be slowest. However it also means they have the longest distance to climb.
We have been living in this rocket for years, because the world outside was poisoned. Now we are told we are being released after a short journey to somewhere beautiful. We can go outside and live in the air and grow things again.
My sister and I, assigned to a top floor because of our youth, are climbing down the stairs towards the bottom. I am convinced the entire evacuation is a scam. The rocket never feels like we are accelerating or decelerating and no one else seems to notice this departure from the physics of what should be happening.
As we descend the air seems thicker. The passengers are certainly greyer, more heavyset. I begin to have a slow-motion panic attack, imagining being stuck behind this slow moving mass. My strategy has been to take our time exiting the rocket so that we could perhaps assess from some downward trickling of reaction whether my fears are grounded.
I have no contacts within the small cadre of officers that run the rocket and issue the orders; my sense of the wrongness of the current plan is simply gut instinct - at least at first. Every little thing seems to support it, niggly little facts eating away at my faith in our leaders.
Why after years of dwindling supplies and restricted rations is it suddenly possible for us to take a short trip to paradise? I can't shake the much more likely scenario: we are nearly out of food and water. This is a plan to conserve what's left among the much smaller number of crew by "letting" us all out into the poisoned air.
The PA system barks; the exodus begins. People swarm up the ladder and disappear many floors above us, into whatever awaits. I hold my breath, hold my sister's hand. We have found nowhere to hide and I have begun to wonder if there is no safety inside the rocket after all. It has occurred to me that many of these senior citizens will not be able to make the long climb to the surface. Perhaps they plan to kill us either way - luring the able-bodied, fit-enough-to-fight outside into the lethal atmosphere and then sealing the slow inside, allowing us to slowly poison ourselves with our own exhalations.
There is a blank spot in my memory of what comes next, so I have no answer to that most basic question - what happened at the pivotal moment as each person emerged from the top of the rocket. Was it hope, crushed by reality or was it, incredibly, joy in the face of salvation, in promises come true.
In the next scenes I am in a museum; I can't tell if it is the future in which we survived, but it seems equally possible this is the prequel, and I am experiencing events in the past.
I am in an underwater museum. Works are shown on walls separated by a thin membrane of water and glass, under lit by soft floodlights. I am looking at a digital exhibit; the prolific artist's surreal photographs blink through in sequence, changeing every ten seconds.
The artist himself is standing next to the 18x24 digital frame, describing his technique. He is a friend, so I have already heard how he shoots at angles that allow him to give the illusion that the body part in focus - usually the head - has been severed from the body yet incredibly still lives. Though his pictures have no blood, they are effective and disturbing.
I am secretly afraid of him because I had a dream one night that when the angle of the shot isn't working, he resorts to actually dissecting his subject, and taking photographs in the moments before death. Either way the images seem evil and whether it is actual or simply effectively simulated horror seems to be a little beside the point.
I come away from the display with my stomach hurting from fear and sadness.
We have been living in this rocket for years, because the world outside was poisoned. Now we are told we are being released after a short journey to somewhere beautiful. We can go outside and live in the air and grow things again.
My sister and I, assigned to a top floor because of our youth, are climbing down the stairs towards the bottom. I am convinced the entire evacuation is a scam. The rocket never feels like we are accelerating or decelerating and no one else seems to notice this departure from the physics of what should be happening.
As we descend the air seems thicker. The passengers are certainly greyer, more heavyset. I begin to have a slow-motion panic attack, imagining being stuck behind this slow moving mass. My strategy has been to take our time exiting the rocket so that we could perhaps assess from some downward trickling of reaction whether my fears are grounded.
I have no contacts within the small cadre of officers that run the rocket and issue the orders; my sense of the wrongness of the current plan is simply gut instinct - at least at first. Every little thing seems to support it, niggly little facts eating away at my faith in our leaders.
Why after years of dwindling supplies and restricted rations is it suddenly possible for us to take a short trip to paradise? I can't shake the much more likely scenario: we are nearly out of food and water. This is a plan to conserve what's left among the much smaller number of crew by "letting" us all out into the poisoned air.
The PA system barks; the exodus begins. People swarm up the ladder and disappear many floors above us, into whatever awaits. I hold my breath, hold my sister's hand. We have found nowhere to hide and I have begun to wonder if there is no safety inside the rocket after all. It has occurred to me that many of these senior citizens will not be able to make the long climb to the surface. Perhaps they plan to kill us either way - luring the able-bodied, fit-enough-to-fight outside into the lethal atmosphere and then sealing the slow inside, allowing us to slowly poison ourselves with our own exhalations.
There is a blank spot in my memory of what comes next, so I have no answer to that most basic question - what happened at the pivotal moment as each person emerged from the top of the rocket. Was it hope, crushed by reality or was it, incredibly, joy in the face of salvation, in promises come true.
In the next scenes I am in a museum; I can't tell if it is the future in which we survived, but it seems equally possible this is the prequel, and I am experiencing events in the past.
I am in an underwater museum. Works are shown on walls separated by a thin membrane of water and glass, under lit by soft floodlights. I am looking at a digital exhibit; the prolific artist's surreal photographs blink through in sequence, changeing every ten seconds.
The artist himself is standing next to the 18x24 digital frame, describing his technique. He is a friend, so I have already heard how he shoots at angles that allow him to give the illusion that the body part in focus - usually the head - has been severed from the body yet incredibly still lives. Though his pictures have no blood, they are effective and disturbing.
I am secretly afraid of him because I had a dream one night that when the angle of the shot isn't working, he resorts to actually dissecting his subject, and taking photographs in the moments before death. Either way the images seem evil and whether it is actual or simply effectively simulated horror seems to be a little beside the point.
I come away from the display with my stomach hurting from fear and sadness.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
X-dimensional world
I was dating Shane from the L Word. We needed money and had turned to a life of crime. Our last heist was going to be the big score that allowed us to leave the country with enough money to live happily in a tropical paradise for the rest of our lives.
I was climbing the side of a building to break into a bank vault when I was caught by security. Shane was already inside, sneaking through corridors and disabling alarms. I couldn't warn her.
I went to a big jail-court building and was released on my own recognizances after a short conversation between the judge and an elegant female lawyer who gave me her card, her name unreadable in loopy font, as she escorted me outside. "We can't afford to lose any more good ones," she said, steering me down the steps.
Meanwhile Shane had taken a set of spiral stairs that drilled endlessly up and up through the building. She got dizzy; the air seemed thin and foreign. A man at the top of the stairs in a velvet blazer and gold shoes spotted her. She thought she was caught but he just laughed and laughed. "You've walked through the time screw," he said. "No turning back now."
Shane walked the spiral staircases again, reversing her direction by walking on the bottom side, as the stairs had gravity in every direction; she emerged at the top into a sunny world that smelled like trash. Clearly not the world she'd left. She passed out in an ashy pile of debris at the bottom of a garden-variety straight stone staircase which is where we found her, hours later. She had grown a thin moustache and said that it burned ferociously between her legs. We propped her against a wall. A man sidled up with rotten teeth and worse breath. "You need a doctor," he giggled. "A doctor, a doctor, a doctor," it was a singsong.
"Is there someone you can recommend." I felt absurd at the formality that came out but the man seemed oblivious to the incongruity.
"Yes, yes, yes," he sang. "Dr. Deehickey," and pointed toward an alley with a shaky finger. "Through the tunnel, second star on the left and straight on till morning," he danced away jerkily.
I wandered through a urine-soaked alley, emerging into another side street; at the mouth of the alley a ragged old man crouched over a small camp stove. Beside him on the left was a delapidated building with three store fronts. A man with a sizable gut and a soft red beard unloaded giant circuit breakers and amps from a van into the first store that was entirely decorated with logos from early computing brands like Apple and Fiji.
In the second store I approached the counter and tried to get the cashier to direct me to Dr. Deehicky. His face registered and then squelched recognition. He peered at me through coke bottle glasses pretending puzzlement. "Please," I pleaded. A very pregnant, beautiful blonde emerged from the back room. I addressed her. "If you know any way we can find this man," I said. "Dr. Deehicky? My friend is very sick."
"He needs antibiotics," she told the cashier, ignoring me. I realized SHE was the doctor and felt ashamed of my inadvertant sexism.
I woke up as a mannequin in a department store. It took a little wandering around, waxy-headed and muzzy, to dress myself in rhinestone studded shoes of two different colors, a black and teal striped dress, and a pale pearl-colored hat. In a mirror I saw a stout 40-something woman with deep reddish-purple hair.
The store attendant spoke to me and what came out of my mouth felt like gibberish till I realized I was speaking the local futurese. The words were wooly and lumpy but began to get clearer though I stumbled over many unfamiliar terms. I realized from his answers and comments that we were on an orbiting space station, hundreds of years after the world was too poisoned to live on.
I drifted slowly out of that body and watched the mannequin woman as she continued talking. "That tari... transton... transition," the mannequin woman was saying, "was a lil... little rough for me this time," mannequin lady said. As they talked, I observed a second even-less coherent being slide into frame, attracting the salesman's attention, a female person wearing a girl's sundress. It was my own recognizably Hilary body, but with a vapid affect and far-away gaze. Hilary-person stood there slack-jawed and drooling, sucking from time to time from a milkshake.
Noting the salesman's new focus, mannequin lady said, "Yes, it was a couple of circuits ago. Something went wrong with the forminator and she lost a lot of cortical activity but we've kept her going out of nostalgia you know."
I was climbing the side of a building to break into a bank vault when I was caught by security. Shane was already inside, sneaking through corridors and disabling alarms. I couldn't warn her.
I went to a big jail-court building and was released on my own recognizances after a short conversation between the judge and an elegant female lawyer who gave me her card, her name unreadable in loopy font, as she escorted me outside. "We can't afford to lose any more good ones," she said, steering me down the steps.
Meanwhile Shane had taken a set of spiral stairs that drilled endlessly up and up through the building. She got dizzy; the air seemed thin and foreign. A man at the top of the stairs in a velvet blazer and gold shoes spotted her. She thought she was caught but he just laughed and laughed. "You've walked through the time screw," he said. "No turning back now."
Shane walked the spiral staircases again, reversing her direction by walking on the bottom side, as the stairs had gravity in every direction; she emerged at the top into a sunny world that smelled like trash. Clearly not the world she'd left. She passed out in an ashy pile of debris at the bottom of a garden-variety straight stone staircase which is where we found her, hours later. She had grown a thin moustache and said that it burned ferociously between her legs. We propped her against a wall. A man sidled up with rotten teeth and worse breath. "You need a doctor," he giggled. "A doctor, a doctor, a doctor," it was a singsong.
"Is there someone you can recommend." I felt absurd at the formality that came out but the man seemed oblivious to the incongruity.
"Yes, yes, yes," he sang. "Dr. Deehickey," and pointed toward an alley with a shaky finger. "Through the tunnel, second star on the left and straight on till morning," he danced away jerkily.
I wandered through a urine-soaked alley, emerging into another side street; at the mouth of the alley a ragged old man crouched over a small camp stove. Beside him on the left was a delapidated building with three store fronts. A man with a sizable gut and a soft red beard unloaded giant circuit breakers and amps from a van into the first store that was entirely decorated with logos from early computing brands like Apple and Fiji.
In the second store I approached the counter and tried to get the cashier to direct me to Dr. Deehicky. His face registered and then squelched recognition. He peered at me through coke bottle glasses pretending puzzlement. "Please," I pleaded. A very pregnant, beautiful blonde emerged from the back room. I addressed her. "If you know any way we can find this man," I said. "Dr. Deehicky? My friend is very sick."
"He needs antibiotics," she told the cashier, ignoring me. I realized SHE was the doctor and felt ashamed of my inadvertant sexism.
I woke up as a mannequin in a department store. It took a little wandering around, waxy-headed and muzzy, to dress myself in rhinestone studded shoes of two different colors, a black and teal striped dress, and a pale pearl-colored hat. In a mirror I saw a stout 40-something woman with deep reddish-purple hair.
The store attendant spoke to me and what came out of my mouth felt like gibberish till I realized I was speaking the local futurese. The words were wooly and lumpy but began to get clearer though I stumbled over many unfamiliar terms. I realized from his answers and comments that we were on an orbiting space station, hundreds of years after the world was too poisoned to live on.
I drifted slowly out of that body and watched the mannequin woman as she continued talking. "That tari... transton... transition," the mannequin woman was saying, "was a lil... little rough for me this time," mannequin lady said. As they talked, I observed a second even-less coherent being slide into frame, attracting the salesman's attention, a female person wearing a girl's sundress. It was my own recognizably Hilary body, but with a vapid affect and far-away gaze. Hilary-person stood there slack-jawed and drooling, sucking from time to time from a milkshake.
Noting the salesman's new focus, mannequin lady said, "Yes, it was a couple of circuits ago. Something went wrong with the forminator and she lost a lot of cortical activity but we've kept her going out of nostalgia you know."
Sunday, August 4, 2013
I am a judgy ho
Apparently I started a blog post with this title two weeks ago. I have NO IDEA what it was supposed to be about but I must have gotten distracted by something shiny and forgotten the premise. It's just such a fabulous post title that I had to use it anyway. It would be most accurate to amend it to "I am a forgetful ho" but that isn't nearly as poetic.
Casual Friday has nothing on Backwards Day
I dreamt that my boss - who is hyper, driven and can be intimidating to the point of rudeness (I quote: "that experiment is RETARDED!!") - returned from a tropical vacation with corn rows in pigtails, sporting flip flops and a goofy smile.
She sauntered down the hallway, greeting people with a slow husky drawl. At the elevator, as we the lab, a core cadre of eight plus six summer students, were waiting for a car to take us to seminar, my type A boss sidled up to me, extended a foot and asked if we were the same shoe size. She was now in front of me so I had wrap myself around her a little to extend my own foot and answer the question - which was no; her feet were larger.
My boss stepped aside so that the lab members could file into the first elevator, and when it was full, smiled and said, "no problem, we'll take the next one," indicating me.
We loaded into the next elevator car, which already contained five people. As we crossed the threshold, me a single step ahead of her, she rested both hands on my hips. I turned, curled an arm around her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. We made out in the car for all four descending floors, while the rest of the car looked on in amazement. I pulled up for air as the elevator dinged its arrival and she said, "Oh man, you have no idea how hard this has been for me."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Did I read that right? I thought..."
She shook her head, "You did. I just..." her lip quivered, tears filled her eyes.
The exiting passengers gawked over their shoulders as the elevator emptied. We left last, and she took my hand as we walked, swung it back and forth and poured out her experience of the last six months: her divorce, custody battle, the stress of coming up for tenure, and her secret inappropriate attraction to one of her employees. She looked meaningfully into my eyes.
I woke up.
She sauntered down the hallway, greeting people with a slow husky drawl. At the elevator, as we the lab, a core cadre of eight plus six summer students, were waiting for a car to take us to seminar, my type A boss sidled up to me, extended a foot and asked if we were the same shoe size. She was now in front of me so I had wrap myself around her a little to extend my own foot and answer the question - which was no; her feet were larger.
My boss stepped aside so that the lab members could file into the first elevator, and when it was full, smiled and said, "no problem, we'll take the next one," indicating me.
We loaded into the next elevator car, which already contained five people. As we crossed the threshold, me a single step ahead of her, she rested both hands on my hips. I turned, curled an arm around her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. We made out in the car for all four descending floors, while the rest of the car looked on in amazement. I pulled up for air as the elevator dinged its arrival and she said, "Oh man, you have no idea how hard this has been for me."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Did I read that right? I thought..."
She shook her head, "You did. I just..." her lip quivered, tears filled her eyes.
The exiting passengers gawked over their shoulders as the elevator emptied. We left last, and she took my hand as we walked, swung it back and forth and poured out her experience of the last six months: her divorce, custody battle, the stress of coming up for tenure, and her secret inappropriate attraction to one of her employees. She looked meaningfully into my eyes.
I woke up.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Afterwards
Deus ex machina.
I went back to sleep after an early superhero dream and woke two hours later with that single phrase.
My mind wants to sleep but body is completely awake.
I went back to sleep after an early superhero dream and woke two hours later with that single phrase.
My mind wants to sleep but body is completely awake.
Documentary of the grotesque and familiar
My dream documentary host was narrating the story of a small mining town in Alabama. To get to work the inhabitants daily crossed a swamp that unbeknownst to them was built on a buried nuclear waste dump site.
A village person related how the swamp water seeped through cracks in his boots. Another person said that he'd often walk ankle deep through the water for yards at a time; in the rainy season it could be up to a half a mile. One day, he took off his boot at the end of the night and discovered bleeding sores.
"Finally," said a third, "it was like everyone in town was bleeding from the ankles." The sores wouldn't heal, just reopened at the slightest touch, and spread, seemingly contagious.
"We didn't know what it was," the voice of the first interviewee floated over the closeup of men's ankles bleeding underwater, their hands scratching at the sores.
Meanwhile in another part of the village, Superman, born here the year the toxic site was closed and buried, was flying through the air saving people from a venomous local hawk.
An old-timer reminisced about the bird's sharp and evil talons, over footage of the hawk catching a rabbit. The rabbit shrieked and twisted in agony as the venom took hold.
Pan to Superman, flying in to rescue a baby from a tree. He barely stayed to receive a tearful thank you from the distraught mother before relaunching into the air.
The narrator began reciting statistics on his stamina, range, average versus maximum flight speed - "our Superman tends to be a little lead-footed compared to others I've heard of." The video showed Superman coming in for a fast, steep landing. Over his shoulder a speck began to enlarge until
"Left shoulder," the narrator yelled suddenly, his voice cracking, "Superman, hawk coming in hard, your left." Video Superman rolled and weaved at the very last second, managing to miss being skewered through the ribcage. Instead a small piece of claw lodged itself in his left thumb.
The narrator was already on the phone to 911. By the time Superman arrived, which is to say, stumbled from the sky into the ER, a gurney was waiting to whisk him to the prep room.
The hospital was all out of antidote but one of the younger doctors, a surgical resident, was testing a brand new procedure to prevent what had been an excruciatingly painful 48 hours that rendered the patient unusable for open casket. The latest deaths of the 12 in the last four months, they had just burned the bodies on a pyre, on the bank of the Mississippi, like it was the Nile.
The narrator gasped as he read his next notes, his intended statement rising, falling on a note that indicated shock and a question, if somewhat rhetorical. "They are going to amputate SUPERMAN'S arm??"
I woke needing water. Played my first game of soccer in two years last night. It was so good. I am sore.
A village person related how the swamp water seeped through cracks in his boots. Another person said that he'd often walk ankle deep through the water for yards at a time; in the rainy season it could be up to a half a mile. One day, he took off his boot at the end of the night and discovered bleeding sores.
"Finally," said a third, "it was like everyone in town was bleeding from the ankles." The sores wouldn't heal, just reopened at the slightest touch, and spread, seemingly contagious.
"We didn't know what it was," the voice of the first interviewee floated over the closeup of men's ankles bleeding underwater, their hands scratching at the sores.
Meanwhile in another part of the village, Superman, born here the year the toxic site was closed and buried, was flying through the air saving people from a venomous local hawk.
An old-timer reminisced about the bird's sharp and evil talons, over footage of the hawk catching a rabbit. The rabbit shrieked and twisted in agony as the venom took hold.
Pan to Superman, flying in to rescue a baby from a tree. He barely stayed to receive a tearful thank you from the distraught mother before relaunching into the air.
The narrator began reciting statistics on his stamina, range, average versus maximum flight speed - "our Superman tends to be a little lead-footed compared to others I've heard of." The video showed Superman coming in for a fast, steep landing. Over his shoulder a speck began to enlarge until
"Left shoulder," the narrator yelled suddenly, his voice cracking, "Superman, hawk coming in hard, your left." Video Superman rolled and weaved at the very last second, managing to miss being skewered through the ribcage. Instead a small piece of claw lodged itself in his left thumb.
The narrator was already on the phone to 911. By the time Superman arrived, which is to say, stumbled from the sky into the ER, a gurney was waiting to whisk him to the prep room.
The hospital was all out of antidote but one of the younger doctors, a surgical resident, was testing a brand new procedure to prevent what had been an excruciatingly painful 48 hours that rendered the patient unusable for open casket. The latest deaths of the 12 in the last four months, they had just burned the bodies on a pyre, on the bank of the Mississippi, like it was the Nile.
The narrator gasped as he read his next notes, his intended statement rising, falling on a note that indicated shock and a question, if somewhat rhetorical. "They are going to amputate SUPERMAN'S arm??"
I woke needing water. Played my first game of soccer in two years last night. It was so good. I am sore.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Reincarnation; that is all
In the middle of a vast North American evacuation I found myself with my sister on a ferry boat. I was sad about dying as it seemed likely we wouldn't survive the journey and even if we did, our destination was uncertain.
At my lowest point, as a deep sense of grieving enveloped me, I suddenly found I believed in reincarnation. Not a romantic fantasy in which "I" survived lifetime to lifetime. My life, my identity, would end, and in the universal, it would end soon. On this flight from disaster to the unknown or in forty years of heart failure, the "me" I clung to would die. But I had this sense of continuation.
A purely scientific version of reincarnation is recycling - the physical material that made up my body would become part of trillions of other beings and features in the world, as happens every day of my life right now anyway.
I had the sense of something beyond that, a sense of who I had been in this life informing the world and future "me"s, a sense that I was shaping myself and the universe by existing through lifetimes, in a way that was real despite my own ignorance in each lifetime that I had already existed and evolved.
At my lowest point, as a deep sense of grieving enveloped me, I suddenly found I believed in reincarnation. Not a romantic fantasy in which "I" survived lifetime to lifetime. My life, my identity, would end, and in the universal, it would end soon. On this flight from disaster to the unknown or in forty years of heart failure, the "me" I clung to would die. But I had this sense of continuation.
A purely scientific version of reincarnation is recycling - the physical material that made up my body would become part of trillions of other beings and features in the world, as happens every day of my life right now anyway.
I had the sense of something beyond that, a sense of who I had been in this life informing the world and future "me"s, a sense that I was shaping myself and the universe by existing through lifetimes, in a way that was real despite my own ignorance in each lifetime that I had already existed and evolved.
All I want is English cheese
I ate so much last night that I dreamt I wasn't hungry. Or, I should say, I ate so LATE - it was 130am when I got home from a 20 hour workday. Taco Bell cooked me dinner and then I passed out.
I dreamt I was at breakfast meeting to plan my best friend's wedding. We made popcorn soaked in red wine, then set it on a paper towel. When it was dry we stamped each kernel with "0544N" in tiny white script.
We were ordered onto a huge ferry boat because we were being evacuated from America. The boat held 5000 refugees. Attendants dressed in air hostess uniforms were seating everyone individually in reclining leather seats scavenged from the airlines. Hundreds of rows of seats had been bolted straight to the deck of the boat; the portholes looked like the windows of a giant plane.
A mid-forties black couple entered the cavernous passenger deck; an attendant grabbed the woman's large duffel bag. The man had no luggage. The woman sat down at the back left in a row that was nearly empty. The hostess moved four rows forward, and put the bag down in a seat right next to mine. "I'm giving you the best seat in the house," she said.
"I want to sit back here," the woman replied.
"The problem with the world today," declared the attendant, "is that people can't tell good quality from bad."
The woman reclined her seat and shook her head. "This is very comfortable. I want to stay."
The hostess sighed. "This seat is the ultimate in luxury; it would be senseless to refuse it."
The woman came reluctantly forward, her eyes darting back to the seat she had just vacated. Just as she sat down, a newcomer claimed her old seat. The attendant looked smug, and left.
Our row was crowded, with almost no elbow room and when she reclined it, the woman's new seat wouldn't stay put, slowly inching a return to vertical. There was one advantage to our row: leg room; it was located on a walkway so the next row of seats was ten feet away.
Though I was bone tired, being upright made it hard to relax; I drifted in and out of consciousness, the need for sleep like a physical ache. Several people to my right got up for lunch and I wanted to stretch out but I had no idea how long my rowmates would be gone.
I started flirting with the woman who'd been bullied into sitting with me, just to pass the time. She seemed to welcome the distraction, and gradually, turned into my sister. "Dad is parking the van in the car deck," she told me. "We could go down and sleep in there."
"I don't know, " I said. "Will they let us in? I thought that after 9/11 access to the car decks was restricted in case people tried to use vehicles as bombs."
Now she had planted that hope, though, I was compelled to explore. There were stairs leading to a second deck that opened into a long dormitory packed with beds. Shockingly, about two beds down on the left, my old tiger lamp was nailed to the wall, and under it was the bed I'd slept in as a child. I even recognized the bedding.
I raced back to my sister and reported what I had seen. Now she was skeptical. "How is that possible?" She suggested it was wishful thinking.
I shook my head. "No way." I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs.
Fog filled the cabin. We walked out onto a cobbled street. It was cold even in the bright sun, a fine mist swirling in from the English seaside that lay directly to the left. Down the street, on the right, a sign said, "Olde Cheese Shoppe." Suddenly I was hungry.
"Maybe Dad's in there," I said. My heart leapt. I really needed it to be true.
I dreamt I was at breakfast meeting to plan my best friend's wedding. We made popcorn soaked in red wine, then set it on a paper towel. When it was dry we stamped each kernel with "0544N" in tiny white script.
We were ordered onto a huge ferry boat because we were being evacuated from America. The boat held 5000 refugees. Attendants dressed in air hostess uniforms were seating everyone individually in reclining leather seats scavenged from the airlines. Hundreds of rows of seats had been bolted straight to the deck of the boat; the portholes looked like the windows of a giant plane.
A mid-forties black couple entered the cavernous passenger deck; an attendant grabbed the woman's large duffel bag. The man had no luggage. The woman sat down at the back left in a row that was nearly empty. The hostess moved four rows forward, and put the bag down in a seat right next to mine. "I'm giving you the best seat in the house," she said.
"I want to sit back here," the woman replied.
"The problem with the world today," declared the attendant, "is that people can't tell good quality from bad."
The woman reclined her seat and shook her head. "This is very comfortable. I want to stay."
The hostess sighed. "This seat is the ultimate in luxury; it would be senseless to refuse it."
The woman came reluctantly forward, her eyes darting back to the seat she had just vacated. Just as she sat down, a newcomer claimed her old seat. The attendant looked smug, and left.
Our row was crowded, with almost no elbow room and when she reclined it, the woman's new seat wouldn't stay put, slowly inching a return to vertical. There was one advantage to our row: leg room; it was located on a walkway so the next row of seats was ten feet away.
Though I was bone tired, being upright made it hard to relax; I drifted in and out of consciousness, the need for sleep like a physical ache. Several people to my right got up for lunch and I wanted to stretch out but I had no idea how long my rowmates would be gone.
I started flirting with the woman who'd been bullied into sitting with me, just to pass the time. She seemed to welcome the distraction, and gradually, turned into my sister. "Dad is parking the van in the car deck," she told me. "We could go down and sleep in there."
"I don't know, " I said. "Will they let us in? I thought that after 9/11 access to the car decks was restricted in case people tried to use vehicles as bombs."
Now she had planted that hope, though, I was compelled to explore. There were stairs leading to a second deck that opened into a long dormitory packed with beds. Shockingly, about two beds down on the left, my old tiger lamp was nailed to the wall, and under it was the bed I'd slept in as a child. I even recognized the bedding.
I raced back to my sister and reported what I had seen. Now she was skeptical. "How is that possible?" She suggested it was wishful thinking.
I shook my head. "No way." I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs.
Fog filled the cabin. We walked out onto a cobbled street. It was cold even in the bright sun, a fine mist swirling in from the English seaside that lay directly to the left. Down the street, on the right, a sign said, "Olde Cheese Shoppe." Suddenly I was hungry.
"Maybe Dad's in there," I said. My heart leapt. I really needed it to be true.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Retired ninja, will work for food
I was a 45 year old retired ninja with a muscular frame, receding hairline and the beginnings of a tiny middle-aged paunch. My post-ninja gig was as a security contractor. Companies hired me to inspect their premises and either prophylactically try to break in or, more often, figure out how somebody else had outsmarted their alarm system/trained dogs/security guards/walls,locks&fences.
My latest client was an elite underground spa for wealthy businessmen. I went on the welcome tour, mentally noting gates, locks, and steroidal staff. After a group steam bath in the cavernous natural shale-lined sauna, I exited to the main lobby with the other guests, then did a u-turn in a dark stairwell and padded silently back downstairs to the locker room.
This time, rather than sauntering in like I owned the place, I hugged the walls and calculated each footfall, while adrenaline, despite years of experience in sneaking, drove a familiar pounding bloodrush in my ear drums.
I never met with my clients in person until after a job was complete. I'd come to Steele Spas unannounced, armed with an alias, and as far as the staff knew, I was just another supremely wealthy CEO/arms dealer/minor middle eastern prince. I was therefore at the mercy of any of the security measures, however angry, muscular, or efficient. I would not identify myself even if caught and handed over to the police. In theory. In two and a half years of practise this had never happened.
The locker room door was true to its namesake: locked. A very solid, gleaming deadbolt slid visibly through several thick wrought iron slats. The lock mechanism itself, however, yielded easily to my handheld pick set, and I observed the gate wasn't truly floor to ceiling but had a good five inches of clearance at the bottom, two at the top. I eased the gate open just wide enough to slip through, and, hearing footsteps echoing somewhere behind me, froze.
The acoustics of the underground caves made it impossible to be certain which direction the noise was coming from. I silently pulled the gate closed behind me, and slipped to one side just as the WWF-sized security guard ambled by on his timed rounds. Having seen him or his clone pass during my impersonation of a guest, I estimated I had five minutes. Not much time, but hopefully enough.
At the far end of the locker room was a pleasantly rusted set of decorative saloon doors that led to the several pools and temperature controlled caves. This time I stopped, dropped, and rolled through the generous waist-high gap, rather than risk the small double squeak I'd heard every time a guest had pushed open the doors and let them swing back.
In the corridor beyond it was dark; before it had been dim, but not so much you'd risk tripping or stumbling into another guest. Now they'd turned out all but the small blue security LEDs set high on the outside side of the curving hallway, spaced about every ten feet. They glowed but only enough to see a small disk of surrounding wall. I walked and counted LEDs, trying hard to ignore how unsettling it was to be unable to see the floor, like I was just a head, floating through an inky darkness.
I turned a corner and walked into a busy dining room, sat down across from two business partners at a firm on Wall Street that had once used my services. I pretended to take part in the conversation, an easy task at this point as I was several whiskeys more sober than either man at my table. Behind them a carefully dressed, delicate-featured Malay girl was having dinner with some friends. Her musical soprano laughter easily outstaged the high-decibel bass of my drinking companions ever raunchier jokes. My desire for her felt like a red haze.
I excused myself when I saw her rise; the boys were having too much fun to notice it was my second break in under fifteen minutes. The restrooms were set to the right of the unmanned front desk. I surreptitiously beheaded one of the Tiger lilies in the chest-high vase, and tossed it expertly against her retreating calf. Rushing forward, I bent to pick it up as she turned, having felt it brush her ankle.
"You dropped this?" I asked, handing it to her, enjoying the puzzlement in her eyes, her small, automatically outstretched hand. Instead of handing it to her, I set it gently behind her ear, allowing a tiny thrilling graze of her cheek with my pinky; I observed a satisfying flush in her cheeks. I gave a faint smile, then moved past her to the men's room. I had crossed the line entirely, now it was time to give my prey a little space.
I opened the door and stepped from the floor of a Chicago city bus onto the sidewalk. Two blocks down I spotted the sidewalk cafe where Jarod, my best friend from high school, was waiting. We hadn't seen or spoken to each other in fifteen years. He looked good - older, heavier, but still the same big brown eyes, olive skin. Unlike me he still had all his hair.
Spotting me he waved, stood, and gave his trademark hundred-watt smile. That smile, together with his stocky six-foot-two frame, had spared him from the usual harassment meted out to the foolhardy uncloseted gays in my midwestern 1990s city.
Jarod folded me in a bear hug, signaled the waiter for another drink, and we entered into conversation shockingly naturally, as if the intervening years had been an insignificant fortnight vacation from our friendship.
Halfway through my second beer, he put his hand on my knee. He held his alcohol well, but there was a tiny weave in his frame as he leaned in, his eyes serious, holding mine. "I think I am in love with you." Then he sat back, as if he'd just told me in confidence that he'd won a bet in a horse race. He took another pull from his lager, gave his dazzling smile, and said, "I have to hit the head. Be right back."
I chewed thoughtfully on a cracker smeared with Brie, trying to decode my best friend's confession, and woke to scratching at my door, and mews clearly demanding breakfast.
My latest client was an elite underground spa for wealthy businessmen. I went on the welcome tour, mentally noting gates, locks, and steroidal staff. After a group steam bath in the cavernous natural shale-lined sauna, I exited to the main lobby with the other guests, then did a u-turn in a dark stairwell and padded silently back downstairs to the locker room.
This time, rather than sauntering in like I owned the place, I hugged the walls and calculated each footfall, while adrenaline, despite years of experience in sneaking, drove a familiar pounding bloodrush in my ear drums.
I never met with my clients in person until after a job was complete. I'd come to Steele Spas unannounced, armed with an alias, and as far as the staff knew, I was just another supremely wealthy CEO/arms dealer/minor middle eastern prince. I was therefore at the mercy of any of the security measures, however angry, muscular, or efficient. I would not identify myself even if caught and handed over to the police. In theory. In two and a half years of practise this had never happened.
The locker room door was true to its namesake: locked. A very solid, gleaming deadbolt slid visibly through several thick wrought iron slats. The lock mechanism itself, however, yielded easily to my handheld pick set, and I observed the gate wasn't truly floor to ceiling but had a good five inches of clearance at the bottom, two at the top. I eased the gate open just wide enough to slip through, and, hearing footsteps echoing somewhere behind me, froze.
The acoustics of the underground caves made it impossible to be certain which direction the noise was coming from. I silently pulled the gate closed behind me, and slipped to one side just as the WWF-sized security guard ambled by on his timed rounds. Having seen him or his clone pass during my impersonation of a guest, I estimated I had five minutes. Not much time, but hopefully enough.
At the far end of the locker room was a pleasantly rusted set of decorative saloon doors that led to the several pools and temperature controlled caves. This time I stopped, dropped, and rolled through the generous waist-high gap, rather than risk the small double squeak I'd heard every time a guest had pushed open the doors and let them swing back.
In the corridor beyond it was dark; before it had been dim, but not so much you'd risk tripping or stumbling into another guest. Now they'd turned out all but the small blue security LEDs set high on the outside side of the curving hallway, spaced about every ten feet. They glowed but only enough to see a small disk of surrounding wall. I walked and counted LEDs, trying hard to ignore how unsettling it was to be unable to see the floor, like I was just a head, floating through an inky darkness.
I turned a corner and walked into a busy dining room, sat down across from two business partners at a firm on Wall Street that had once used my services. I pretended to take part in the conversation, an easy task at this point as I was several whiskeys more sober than either man at my table. Behind them a carefully dressed, delicate-featured Malay girl was having dinner with some friends. Her musical soprano laughter easily outstaged the high-decibel bass of my drinking companions ever raunchier jokes. My desire for her felt like a red haze.
I excused myself when I saw her rise; the boys were having too much fun to notice it was my second break in under fifteen minutes. The restrooms were set to the right of the unmanned front desk. I surreptitiously beheaded one of the Tiger lilies in the chest-high vase, and tossed it expertly against her retreating calf. Rushing forward, I bent to pick it up as she turned, having felt it brush her ankle.
"You dropped this?" I asked, handing it to her, enjoying the puzzlement in her eyes, her small, automatically outstretched hand. Instead of handing it to her, I set it gently behind her ear, allowing a tiny thrilling graze of her cheek with my pinky; I observed a satisfying flush in her cheeks. I gave a faint smile, then moved past her to the men's room. I had crossed the line entirely, now it was time to give my prey a little space.
I opened the door and stepped from the floor of a Chicago city bus onto the sidewalk. Two blocks down I spotted the sidewalk cafe where Jarod, my best friend from high school, was waiting. We hadn't seen or spoken to each other in fifteen years. He looked good - older, heavier, but still the same big brown eyes, olive skin. Unlike me he still had all his hair.
Spotting me he waved, stood, and gave his trademark hundred-watt smile. That smile, together with his stocky six-foot-two frame, had spared him from the usual harassment meted out to the foolhardy uncloseted gays in my midwestern 1990s city.
Jarod folded me in a bear hug, signaled the waiter for another drink, and we entered into conversation shockingly naturally, as if the intervening years had been an insignificant fortnight vacation from our friendship.
Halfway through my second beer, he put his hand on my knee. He held his alcohol well, but there was a tiny weave in his frame as he leaned in, his eyes serious, holding mine. "I think I am in love with you." Then he sat back, as if he'd just told me in confidence that he'd won a bet in a horse race. He took another pull from his lager, gave his dazzling smile, and said, "I have to hit the head. Be right back."
I chewed thoughtfully on a cracker smeared with Brie, trying to decode my best friend's confession, and woke to scratching at my door, and mews clearly demanding breakfast.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Cats in cupboards
I dreamt I arrived home to find my little grey cat agitated and distraught. She herded me to the kitchen where I could hear the muffled cries of another cat. Some brief searching later, I rescued my giant orange cat from the prison of the kitchen cupboard
and woke to find him mewing pitifully at my bedroom door for breakfast.
I dunno. I think it's going to be a weird day
and woke to find him mewing pitifully at my bedroom door for breakfast.
I dunno. I think it's going to be a weird day
Deep cover
5am
I have a head cold and it's 91,000 degrees outside. I've risen to the border of consciousness about six times already tonight.
Each time the contents of the room insert themselves in the plotline like a fever dream, then I sink back into sleep.
This time the satiny finish on my duvet smoothed a turbulent dream moment to peaceful.
Everything is congested; it feels like my brain is swollen.
I have a head cold and it's 91,000 degrees outside. I've risen to the border of consciousness about six times already tonight.
Each time the contents of the room insert themselves in the plotline like a fever dream, then I sink back into sleep.
This time the satiny finish on my duvet smoothed a turbulent dream moment to peaceful.
Everything is congested; it feels like my brain is swollen.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Jet lag
This morning I can't remember my dreams but can feel the residual tension of a busy night in my neck and jaw.
Apparently I grind my teeth in my sleep. Dentists discuss the wear pattern on my teeth, the stress cracks in my bone. Partners and sleepover friends have heard rubbing sounds coming from my persistent jaw. Mostly I would be unaware of it, but sometimes right before I wake, I can hear it, my mouth busy at its lifetime's work or wearing down my enamel.
I am getting up at 630 despite feeling like I could use another 3 hours of sleep. I am trying to move myself into the correct time zone, out of the 9am start I accidentally slipped into sometime in the last few years. My body wakes me at the crack of dawn but usually my mind, which has been held hostage and forced to stay awake till 2am, convinces me to sleep in.
I have a theory that repeated cycles of cortisol on waking over and over in the morning are making me fat.
I need to drink water, and stand my ground. I will ignore the seductive pull of sleep.
Today the body will win.
Apparently I grind my teeth in my sleep. Dentists discuss the wear pattern on my teeth, the stress cracks in my bone. Partners and sleepover friends have heard rubbing sounds coming from my persistent jaw. Mostly I would be unaware of it, but sometimes right before I wake, I can hear it, my mouth busy at its lifetime's work or wearing down my enamel.
I am getting up at 630 despite feeling like I could use another 3 hours of sleep. I am trying to move myself into the correct time zone, out of the 9am start I accidentally slipped into sometime in the last few years. My body wakes me at the crack of dawn but usually my mind, which has been held hostage and forced to stay awake till 2am, convinces me to sleep in.
I have a theory that repeated cycles of cortisol on waking over and over in the morning are making me fat.
I need to drink water, and stand my ground. I will ignore the seductive pull of sleep.
Today the body will win.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
I am a survivalist... sort of
I have a persistent fear that civilization as we know it is going to collapse and I will have to make my way through its crumbling architecture and try, somehow, to survive.
This is not an entertaining theoretical but a fairly constant and concrete fear. I think about and plan for various kinds of specific disaster all the time. Sort of.
See I don't actually test or implement my plans for survival.
When I lived in northern Canada as a college freshman, for instance, (yes this has been going on for a while) I never actually tried to get through a frigid Edmonton night by sleeping over the exhaust vents of the university library. I just noted every building I passed that had large warm grates, places where the snow wouldn't stick, and I'd think, "oh yeah, I could sleep there." And it would temporarily ease my mind. I could survive one night as a homeless person in The Coldest City on Earth (my TM).
I do not even have the fairly sensible three-day kit - enough food and water assembled to get through a temporary but widespread loss of services to Seattle thanks to earthquake/air strike/tsunami/civil unrest/major power grid failure.
As a scientist this disaster mindset has both helped and hindered me. I can see, as I begin every experiment, about fifty ways it will most likely fail.
This is, of course, unlike my fear that I will suddenly be destitute and abandoned by all friends and family, actually pretty rational. Science is unkind to those of us with a dopamine addiction, and daily my fears are proven grounded in such brutally real ways that I could bar graph them and give you the error bars and chi squared on failure, accompanied by a linear regression showing the correlation between my direst predictions and actual outcomes.
And also, unlike my never-fully-realized plan to have a meeting spot where my friends and I could rebuild society and fight off the hordes of profiteers and militia, when it comes to research, being a negative future nancy leads me to plan my experiments very, very carefully - though not, unfortunately, well enough to consistently achieve success. I would say that my planning maybe shifts the failure rate from 75% down to 65%. 60% on a good day.
It's hard to know if this is worth the extra time and stress that it costs me. But I always have the most beautiful controls.
Lately I have been thinking that I maybe would feel better and even be more productive if I tried to balance my science-worry with my world-worry.
Maybe I could let go of my neurotic planning for every possible experimental outcome, and control for only the top five most likely contingencies. And maybe I could devote a little bit of time to emergency planning - for the top five most likely scenarios.
Maybe I'll put that 3 day kit together finally.
Meanwhile... I don't know that it makes much sense to ponder this one solo. I am now officially taking suggestions from you, the people, about where we should huddle together when the revolution/nuclear winter/zombie apocalypse comes.
This is not an entertaining theoretical but a fairly constant and concrete fear. I think about and plan for various kinds of specific disaster all the time. Sort of.
See I don't actually test or implement my plans for survival.
When I lived in northern Canada as a college freshman, for instance, (yes this has been going on for a while) I never actually tried to get through a frigid Edmonton night by sleeping over the exhaust vents of the university library. I just noted every building I passed that had large warm grates, places where the snow wouldn't stick, and I'd think, "oh yeah, I could sleep there." And it would temporarily ease my mind. I could survive one night as a homeless person in The Coldest City on Earth (my TM).
I do not even have the fairly sensible three-day kit - enough food and water assembled to get through a temporary but widespread loss of services to Seattle thanks to earthquake/air strike/tsunami/civil unrest/major power grid failure.
As a scientist this disaster mindset has both helped and hindered me. I can see, as I begin every experiment, about fifty ways it will most likely fail.
This is, of course, unlike my fear that I will suddenly be destitute and abandoned by all friends and family, actually pretty rational. Science is unkind to those of us with a dopamine addiction, and daily my fears are proven grounded in such brutally real ways that I could bar graph them and give you the error bars and chi squared on failure, accompanied by a linear regression showing the correlation between my direst predictions and actual outcomes.
And also, unlike my never-fully-realized plan to have a meeting spot where my friends and I could rebuild society and fight off the hordes of profiteers and militia, when it comes to research, being a negative future nancy leads me to plan my experiments very, very carefully - though not, unfortunately, well enough to consistently achieve success. I would say that my planning maybe shifts the failure rate from 75% down to 65%. 60% on a good day.
It's hard to know if this is worth the extra time and stress that it costs me. But I always have the most beautiful controls.
Lately I have been thinking that I maybe would feel better and even be more productive if I tried to balance my science-worry with my world-worry.
Maybe I could let go of my neurotic planning for every possible experimental outcome, and control for only the top five most likely contingencies. And maybe I could devote a little bit of time to emergency planning - for the top five most likely scenarios.
Maybe I'll put that 3 day kit together finally.
Meanwhile... I don't know that it makes much sense to ponder this one solo. I am now officially taking suggestions from you, the people, about where we should huddle together when the revolution/nuclear winter/zombie apocalypse comes.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Serial killer Hawaian edition
I dreamt that I went to visit a friend in Hawaii. She had moved there over a year ago with a backpack and now had a job, friends, an apartment.
When I arrived, her new friends told me she worked for a filmographer who, it was rumored, did snuff films. My friend would not comment on this.
She gave me the grand tour of her adopted town. Now we were in Hanoi, and it was very tidy. We stood chatting in the lobby of her boss' studio while porn stars paraded on and off of the various sets.
When I arrived, her new friends told me she worked for a filmographer who, it was rumored, did snuff films. My friend would not comment on this.
She gave me the grand tour of her adopted town. Now we were in Hanoi, and it was very tidy. We stood chatting in the lobby of her boss' studio while porn stars paraded on and off of the various sets.
Half a hot dog bun away from being obese
I was touring Australia to collect census data on fitness for a huge graph on the home page of the National Health website.
I asked every person I met to ride a kanagaroo for five minutes after eating half a hot dog bun. If the person did very well - stayed on the kangaroo, got the kangaroo up to its top speed, and seemed relaxed rather than exhausted at the end - then I would playfully refer to their high fitness level as being "half a hot dog bun away from being obese". If someone was average or poor, I simply thanked them for participating.
The last such instance before I woke took place in an abandoned parking lot with a group of eight women on a "hen tour" - soccer mom besties taking a fortnight off from their husbands and kids.
I sat at the back of the converted school bus they were using to travel across country and handed out the hot dog bun pieces. Somehow I miscounted and there weren't enough hot dog bun halves to go round. I gave the last woman a Dorito chip and a soft corn tortilla instead, hoping it was an equivalent amount of calories.
Then the kangaroo arrived.
I asked every person I met to ride a kanagaroo for five minutes after eating half a hot dog bun. If the person did very well - stayed on the kangaroo, got the kangaroo up to its top speed, and seemed relaxed rather than exhausted at the end - then I would playfully refer to their high fitness level as being "half a hot dog bun away from being obese". If someone was average or poor, I simply thanked them for participating.
The last such instance before I woke took place in an abandoned parking lot with a group of eight women on a "hen tour" - soccer mom besties taking a fortnight off from their husbands and kids.
I sat at the back of the converted school bus they were using to travel across country and handed out the hot dog bun pieces. Somehow I miscounted and there weren't enough hot dog bun halves to go round. I gave the last woman a Dorito chip and a soft corn tortilla instead, hoping it was an equivalent amount of calories.
Then the kangaroo arrived.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Go big or go home
You ever dream big, wide, momentous dreams, dreams that fill the night with epic movie style images... and wake up with muzzy shadows chased from your head by the first crack of your eyelids?
Yeah. Well that's the night I had. I have dream amnesia, and it sucks.
Yeah. Well that's the night I had. I have dream amnesia, and it sucks.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Wear a hardhat at all times in this area
*WARNING* This post contains content not suitable for all audiences. While it does not use particularly graphic language, it mentions sex, as well as prophylactics, the morning after pill, and abortion, with occasional details that could be upsetting for some people.
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I was driving across the country in my old family van. I visited my parents and had an emotional talk with my dad about money, our shared history, and sandwiches. We agreed on bacon but disagreed on tomatoes. It was a good visit but left me feeling lonely.
I met Adam in a diner after a brief correspondence through a Craigslist ad. We chatted over soup long enough to establish there was decent chemistry, and then got into my van.
I drove to an empty parking lot, next to an abandoned movie theater decorated with scaffolding. Signs across the side of the building read, "Wear a hard hat at all times in this area."
We didn't bother getting naked. We began seated, me facing him, straddling his lap, and then decided we needed more leverage. The van turned into the roof of the movie theater. The air was warm with a nice breeze, and the ground was covered with Astroturf.
I got on my hands and knees. He was behind me. After only second he leaned forward, breath in my ear and murmured, "Too soon."
"What?" I turned. He pulled away, looking smug. I realized for the first time that he had not been using a condom. I felt instantly sick. Why, oh why, hadn't I checked for that in the beginning?
Even if I could recall verbatim the ensuing thirty second monologue, it would be laced with too many expletives to share. The safe for work words included stupid, irresponsible, and selfish. "I am fertile. Did this not occur to you at all?" I yelled.
Adam shrugged, I stopped, took a breath and said, quietly, "You don't seem concerned."
"You're making a big deal out of this," he replied.
"OK," I kept my voice low, so that I wouldn't scream. "What, in your opinion, should I be doing?"
He reached out and gently squeezed my upper arm. "I think... you could be a better sport about it."
I felt my brain melt with rage. I knew what he was about to say before the words left his mouth.
He went on, "There are ways to fix it. You know. If anything happens."
"Right," I said. "I'll tell you what. Why don't we take you to the clinic right now and have someone scrape out your insides with a metal instrument?" For the first time I saw his eyes widen. "Don't you dare act like this is nothing. Or that it's the same for me as it is for you." I punched him, hard, in the bicep, then got into my van and drove away. I wondered if this town had an all night clinic. A pharmacy might do. I needed Plan B right away.
I circled the parking lot. There were no exits so I ended up passing him again, leaning against his car. I rolled down the window, pulled up the ancient button lock and said, "HEY." When he looked up, I motioned for him to get into the passenger seat.
He was on the roof again. My van was lifted and so tall that I still looked down on him. I operated the axle crank so that I could bring my vehicle level with the theater roof, then used the newly installed robotic arm to swing myself gracefully out on the roof ledge.
I sat, patting the concrete beside me.
He sat next to me, avoiding eye contact.
"Sorry," he said, after an enormous silence.
"I am going to find a drugstore," I said. "Want to come?"
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I was driving across the country in my old family van. I visited my parents and had an emotional talk with my dad about money, our shared history, and sandwiches. We agreed on bacon but disagreed on tomatoes. It was a good visit but left me feeling lonely.
I met Adam in a diner after a brief correspondence through a Craigslist ad. We chatted over soup long enough to establish there was decent chemistry, and then got into my van.
I drove to an empty parking lot, next to an abandoned movie theater decorated with scaffolding. Signs across the side of the building read, "Wear a hard hat at all times in this area."
We didn't bother getting naked. We began seated, me facing him, straddling his lap, and then decided we needed more leverage. The van turned into the roof of the movie theater. The air was warm with a nice breeze, and the ground was covered with Astroturf.
I got on my hands and knees. He was behind me. After only second he leaned forward, breath in my ear and murmured, "Too soon."
"What?" I turned. He pulled away, looking smug. I realized for the first time that he had not been using a condom. I felt instantly sick. Why, oh why, hadn't I checked for that in the beginning?
Even if I could recall verbatim the ensuing thirty second monologue, it would be laced with too many expletives to share. The safe for work words included stupid, irresponsible, and selfish. "I am fertile. Did this not occur to you at all?" I yelled.
Adam shrugged, I stopped, took a breath and said, quietly, "You don't seem concerned."
"You're making a big deal out of this," he replied.
"OK," I kept my voice low, so that I wouldn't scream. "What, in your opinion, should I be doing?"
He reached out and gently squeezed my upper arm. "I think... you could be a better sport about it."
I felt my brain melt with rage. I knew what he was about to say before the words left his mouth.
He went on, "There are ways to fix it. You know. If anything happens."
"Right," I said. "I'll tell you what. Why don't we take you to the clinic right now and have someone scrape out your insides with a metal instrument?" For the first time I saw his eyes widen. "Don't you dare act like this is nothing. Or that it's the same for me as it is for you." I punched him, hard, in the bicep, then got into my van and drove away. I wondered if this town had an all night clinic. A pharmacy might do. I needed Plan B right away.
I circled the parking lot. There were no exits so I ended up passing him again, leaning against his car. I rolled down the window, pulled up the ancient button lock and said, "HEY." When he looked up, I motioned for him to get into the passenger seat.
He was on the roof again. My van was lifted and so tall that I still looked down on him. I operated the axle crank so that I could bring my vehicle level with the theater roof, then used the newly installed robotic arm to swing myself gracefully out on the roof ledge.
I sat, patting the concrete beside me.
He sat next to me, avoiding eye contact.
"Sorry," he said, after an enormous silence.
"I am going to find a drugstore," I said. "Want to come?"
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Riding the bus should be a euphemism for something...
My car broke down. The bus I caught took forever to arrive and when it did, there were twin female drivers, and two fare boxes. "It's a tandem!" the two attractive redheads exclaimed in synchrony, to answer the question on my face.
I didn't recognize the route number but the front driver said yes she was going to Shoreline; in fact, the main artery in my neighbourhood was under construction. The detour would pass directly in front of my house.
The passengers inside were rowdy. They had been riding for hours, they said. The bus was experiencing intermittent mechanical problems and the relief bus had been too small to fit everyone so it had gone ahead with their luggage. Meanwhile it was getting dark and groups of passengers had formed alliances and staked out different territories so they could sleep in safety.
At the front left I recognized the distinctive blonde dreadlocks of my sister. She had her back to me and was putting up strands of white Christmas lights. The front bench seat was Tetris'ed together with a few yanked-out side seats to form a nice double bed over which she had spread a fluffy white faux fur comforter.
Her boyfriend, seated and facing forward, saw me first and yelled "sister!!!" in a british accent; he was clearly drunk. After joyful greetings all round I learned they had smuggled rum on the bus and so were not concerned about the longer-than-normal journey.
We approached a red light and my sister's boyfriend asked her to grab some ibuprofen from the corner store. She was out the door before I could explain that we had just hit the suburbs and the bus stops would now be half a mile apart. Just as she exited the store, purchase in hand, the light changed. The bus accelerated to commuter train speed, leaving no opportunity for my sister to re-board.
We called her cell and it dutifully buzzed beside us; in her haste to run the errand she'd left it on the seat. I was in a panic; my sister was lost in a strange city at night. How would we ever find her? Now I was eager to get home so I could drop all her stuff and borrow a car to retrace the route.
At an intersection about six miles down the road, the bus shuddered to a stop. The mechanic was called again. I went forward to ask the bus driver if he could patch in over the radio to be on the lookout for my sister in case she boarded the next bus.
The driver - now a man, thanks to a company-mandated shift change - was initially reluctant to help. "Thousands of people board buses every day," he said. I insisted, mentioning her distinctive hair. "Blonde dreadlocks?" he looked thoughtful then nodded, reached for his radio. "I can work with that."
I had hoped for a long stop but only minutes after the mechanic arrived, the bus was rolling again. I considered calling the non-emergency police line to see if they had an officer in the area who could look for my sister but then realized she would probably avoid any roving patrol car. As a rasta-looking taxi driver, most of my sister's law enforcement experiences had left her bitter and wary.
I was near tears and pacing at the back of the bus when someone came up behind me and wrapped my waist with gold-bangled arms. "Surprise!" My sister kissed my cheek. Besides her many bracelets, she was now wearing an ankle-length gold satin sheath under a crocheted shawl. Not only had she managed to locate a bus route map, cash and a taxi, there had been time for shopping.
To celebrate we turned the bus into a Buick and deleted the other passengers. I race-carred down the freeway toward the airport so as not to miss their flight. It was dawn, the sun coming up fast. Abruptly I realized that I was speeding behind a highway patrol car. The lights and siren came on, and the car slowed. I swore; he was going to get behind me. A minute later his true target, a small blue Honda, pulled over and I maneuvered around both cars with a sigh of relief... only to see a whole carvan of emergency vehicles angled across four out of five lanes on the highway. Two officers directed traffic as it squeezed through in the far left lane.
As we got closer, I recognized the officers as the two perky redhead drivers from the bus ride. They began doing a Broadway style tap dance, using their nightsticks as canes. As we passed, they shimmied in unison, sent air kisses in through our window and yelled, "See? Police don't have to be scary!"
I didn't recognize the route number but the front driver said yes she was going to Shoreline; in fact, the main artery in my neighbourhood was under construction. The detour would pass directly in front of my house.
The passengers inside were rowdy. They had been riding for hours, they said. The bus was experiencing intermittent mechanical problems and the relief bus had been too small to fit everyone so it had gone ahead with their luggage. Meanwhile it was getting dark and groups of passengers had formed alliances and staked out different territories so they could sleep in safety.
At the front left I recognized the distinctive blonde dreadlocks of my sister. She had her back to me and was putting up strands of white Christmas lights. The front bench seat was Tetris'ed together with a few yanked-out side seats to form a nice double bed over which she had spread a fluffy white faux fur comforter.
Her boyfriend, seated and facing forward, saw me first and yelled "sister!!!" in a british accent; he was clearly drunk. After joyful greetings all round I learned they had smuggled rum on the bus and so were not concerned about the longer-than-normal journey.
We approached a red light and my sister's boyfriend asked her to grab some ibuprofen from the corner store. She was out the door before I could explain that we had just hit the suburbs and the bus stops would now be half a mile apart. Just as she exited the store, purchase in hand, the light changed. The bus accelerated to commuter train speed, leaving no opportunity for my sister to re-board.
We called her cell and it dutifully buzzed beside us; in her haste to run the errand she'd left it on the seat. I was in a panic; my sister was lost in a strange city at night. How would we ever find her? Now I was eager to get home so I could drop all her stuff and borrow a car to retrace the route.
At an intersection about six miles down the road, the bus shuddered to a stop. The mechanic was called again. I went forward to ask the bus driver if he could patch in over the radio to be on the lookout for my sister in case she boarded the next bus.
The driver - now a man, thanks to a company-mandated shift change - was initially reluctant to help. "Thousands of people board buses every day," he said. I insisted, mentioning her distinctive hair. "Blonde dreadlocks?" he looked thoughtful then nodded, reached for his radio. "I can work with that."
I had hoped for a long stop but only minutes after the mechanic arrived, the bus was rolling again. I considered calling the non-emergency police line to see if they had an officer in the area who could look for my sister but then realized she would probably avoid any roving patrol car. As a rasta-looking taxi driver, most of my sister's law enforcement experiences had left her bitter and wary.
I was near tears and pacing at the back of the bus when someone came up behind me and wrapped my waist with gold-bangled arms. "Surprise!" My sister kissed my cheek. Besides her many bracelets, she was now wearing an ankle-length gold satin sheath under a crocheted shawl. Not only had she managed to locate a bus route map, cash and a taxi, there had been time for shopping.
To celebrate we turned the bus into a Buick and deleted the other passengers. I race-carred down the freeway toward the airport so as not to miss their flight. It was dawn, the sun coming up fast. Abruptly I realized that I was speeding behind a highway patrol car. The lights and siren came on, and the car slowed. I swore; he was going to get behind me. A minute later his true target, a small blue Honda, pulled over and I maneuvered around both cars with a sigh of relief... only to see a whole carvan of emergency vehicles angled across four out of five lanes on the highway. Two officers directed traffic as it squeezed through in the far left lane.
As we got closer, I recognized the officers as the two perky redhead drivers from the bus ride. They began doing a Broadway style tap dance, using their nightsticks as canes. As we passed, they shimmied in unison, sent air kisses in through our window and yelled, "See? Police don't have to be scary!"
Friday, June 7, 2013
Really??!??
I worked till 4am, got home at 430, and
DREAMT I WENT TO WORK.
Double you tee eff.
That is all.
DREAMT I WENT TO WORK.
Double you tee eff.
That is all.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Hotel meets Human rights
I was attending a conference in a huge hotel complex, consisting of 14 hexagonal wings connected by corridors at 35 degree angles; in aerial view it resembled a geometrical warren, like a distended beehive.
One morning, on my way to a seminar, I tried to use the bathroom. A large hispanic woman wearing a medical mask blocked my way. I backed out, confused, and went down the hall to the atrium of my wing, where the restrooms for men and women were side by side, each containing four stalls.
Eight lines about six people deep waited for the bathroom, like outdoor concert goers queueing for the porta-potties. Both the mens and womens' entrances were blocked by unsmiling workers, in hazard suits and disposable masks. I was feeling rather desperate at this point and decided to just return to my room and use the toilet there.
I passed the far end of the mob and a line that had only a single occupant. Velvet movie ropes demarcated the VIP line, and the silver haired woman with a clipboard manning it smiled at me. "Hilary," she motioned me over, "you're faculty; you can get in this line."
I smiled back, pleased to be recognized, but it felt awkward to have some privelege the mob lacked. "What's going on?" I asked.
Earlier that morning there had been apparently some confrontation between the local army and a guerrilla leader in the Dominican Republic, and this man, widely considered a hero by residents, and a notorious criminal by the US government, had been shot and killed while trying to set explosives at an undisclosed location.
I puzzled over the news, trying to make the connection to the toilet stand-in. I could see mourning an important figure, or staging a protest to achieve one of his aims but the goal of this action was unclear. Was it simply to raise awareness? Had he been setting explosives on a latrine?
The women barring the ladies room chatted and shifted but the men stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed in the doorway to the mens' restroom, so still and silent, even their facial muscles didn't move. They exuded a kind of cold outrage and determination; it was impossible to be unmoved.
I turned to go and a little boy broke rank and ran after me. He tapped my hand and whispered,"take me with you?" We turned the corner, out of sight of the mob and the bathroom protestors.
"Hi," I said, "Who are you?"
"I'm Gomez," he said, "and I'm eight. I can tell you what happened, and why my family and everyone is standing in the toilet."
I realized this could be the start of a great story. I nodded, taking the hand he offered. "I have to make a quick stop in my hotel to get my tape recorder," I said. The truth was it was already in my pocket; but I still needed to use the restroom very urgently.
At my hotel room I made a big deal of propping open the door so it wouldn't be inappropriate to have a little boy in my room without his parents' knowledge or consent. I had a small worry that one of the maids might be standing in my hotel room toilet but I had the room to myself.
"I'll be right back," I told the boy. "Watch TV if you like."
Then I woke.
One morning, on my way to a seminar, I tried to use the bathroom. A large hispanic woman wearing a medical mask blocked my way. I backed out, confused, and went down the hall to the atrium of my wing, where the restrooms for men and women were side by side, each containing four stalls.
Eight lines about six people deep waited for the bathroom, like outdoor concert goers queueing for the porta-potties. Both the mens and womens' entrances were blocked by unsmiling workers, in hazard suits and disposable masks. I was feeling rather desperate at this point and decided to just return to my room and use the toilet there.
I passed the far end of the mob and a line that had only a single occupant. Velvet movie ropes demarcated the VIP line, and the silver haired woman with a clipboard manning it smiled at me. "Hilary," she motioned me over, "you're faculty; you can get in this line."
I smiled back, pleased to be recognized, but it felt awkward to have some privelege the mob lacked. "What's going on?" I asked.
Earlier that morning there had been apparently some confrontation between the local army and a guerrilla leader in the Dominican Republic, and this man, widely considered a hero by residents, and a notorious criminal by the US government, had been shot and killed while trying to set explosives at an undisclosed location.
I puzzled over the news, trying to make the connection to the toilet stand-in. I could see mourning an important figure, or staging a protest to achieve one of his aims but the goal of this action was unclear. Was it simply to raise awareness? Had he been setting explosives on a latrine?
The women barring the ladies room chatted and shifted but the men stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed in the doorway to the mens' restroom, so still and silent, even their facial muscles didn't move. They exuded a kind of cold outrage and determination; it was impossible to be unmoved.
I turned to go and a little boy broke rank and ran after me. He tapped my hand and whispered,"take me with you?" We turned the corner, out of sight of the mob and the bathroom protestors.
"Hi," I said, "Who are you?"
"I'm Gomez," he said, "and I'm eight. I can tell you what happened, and why my family and everyone is standing in the toilet."
I realized this could be the start of a great story. I nodded, taking the hand he offered. "I have to make a quick stop in my hotel to get my tape recorder," I said. The truth was it was already in my pocket; but I still needed to use the restroom very urgently.
At my hotel room I made a big deal of propping open the door so it wouldn't be inappropriate to have a little boy in my room without his parents' knowledge or consent. I had a small worry that one of the maids might be standing in my hotel room toilet but I had the room to myself.
"I'll be right back," I told the boy. "Watch TV if you like."
Then I woke.
Monday, June 3, 2013
The real world - if it were a video game
My world was a video game in which at any given time, 8 people I knew would be randomly assigned players. Every time they performed some significant act, it would go into this virtual data box that hovered just over their right shoulder.
Visually the box was about 3 inches cubed, and it held 8 Mb of data. When full, a threshold would be activated and a mystery would open, which had to be solved by the person and their immediate friends - which might include other players - within a given time limit.
Success meant the burden of Playing would pass, at least temporarily, to some other member of the world. Failure led, as is the case in all video games, to sudden death. In this game, as is the case in real life, players had only a single timed attempt to get it right.
Visually the box was about 3 inches cubed, and it held 8 Mb of data. When full, a threshold would be activated and a mystery would open, which had to be solved by the person and their immediate friends - which might include other players - within a given time limit.
Success meant the burden of Playing would pass, at least temporarily, to some other member of the world. Failure led, as is the case in all video games, to sudden death. In this game, as is the case in real life, players had only a single timed attempt to get it right.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
A little from column A, a little from column B
I was slicing bits off the keel of a sailboat and recording the cut I had made in column A against the angle it sat in the water in column B.
The fortune cookie phrase floating in my head just before waking: "You have to relinquish control to achieve your dreams."
The fortune cookie phrase floating in my head just before waking: "You have to relinquish control to achieve your dreams."
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Episode 2
Fell back to sleep, woke two hours later from a dream that I was building a graph with two data points - the one from my last dream. And a new one about how clean I could get something with a whole container of Comet.
How many decimal points would you like with that?
Last night I took part of an MCAT practise test just for fun. In real life. Yes I'm that weird. Some of my friends are testing for medical school this year and I got curious.
Last scene before waking from sleep this morning: I was working a calculation and had finally figured it out. I turned to the person I was working it for and asked, "How many decimal points would you like with that?"
Conclusion: I am just as much of a geek in my dreams as in real life.
Also, I want that bumper sticker/t-shirt.
Last scene before waking from sleep this morning: I was working a calculation and had finally figured it out. I turned to the person I was working it for and asked, "How many decimal points would you like with that?"
Conclusion: I am just as much of a geek in my dreams as in real life.
Also, I want that bumper sticker/t-shirt.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Hell's waiting room and the face of Death
I was a young man named Alex. A girl I was dating died and I had to carry her body to the lobby of heaven.
I stepped through a doorway, the girl heavy in my arms, and found myself on a granite grey slab. The walls were stop sign red, and there was a second door ahead of me, frosted glass etched with an arboreal pattern, like the network of blood vessels in the body. It smelled like rotten vegetables, like the inside of a dumpster. I realized I had taken a wrong turn.
Keeping my grip on the girl tight, I backed out of Hell's lobby into the corridor. It was side by side with a door that issued a pale blue light and wispy clouds. I took a breath, walked through the adjacent doorway
and ended up right back in Hell's lobby. There was muzak playing now, I noticed. The air seemed sharper, expectant. A shadow crossed behind the frosted glass door.
Again I retreated, my heart hammering in my chest, arms cramping from carrying my girl. I rested against the wall between the doorways, trying to catch my breath.
Across the hall was a discarded toaster oven, and in its burnished surface, I saw myself, the body of the girl in my trembling arms. The archways on each side of me - one to heaven, one to hell - were reflected too.
Something moved in the doorway to hell's lobby. Don't, I told myself. Don't look at it. But I couldn't help myself. A shadowy figure approached the doorway, and resolved. I caught a glimpse of a corpse white skeleton face, with a thick oily tongue constantly licking its rotting lips.
It was all I could do not to scream, drop the girl and run. I held my breath, trying not to get its attention. It can't leave and come out to get me. It's fine if I don't move. Don't look in its eyes.
I began to calm down but then, with a sick lurch I realized, if I could see Death then... lifting my eyes again to focus on the toaster, I saw it watching me, saw it grimace in recognition and hunger.
I woke.
I stepped through a doorway, the girl heavy in my arms, and found myself on a granite grey slab. The walls were stop sign red, and there was a second door ahead of me, frosted glass etched with an arboreal pattern, like the network of blood vessels in the body. It smelled like rotten vegetables, like the inside of a dumpster. I realized I had taken a wrong turn.
Keeping my grip on the girl tight, I backed out of Hell's lobby into the corridor. It was side by side with a door that issued a pale blue light and wispy clouds. I took a breath, walked through the adjacent doorway
and ended up right back in Hell's lobby. There was muzak playing now, I noticed. The air seemed sharper, expectant. A shadow crossed behind the frosted glass door.
Again I retreated, my heart hammering in my chest, arms cramping from carrying my girl. I rested against the wall between the doorways, trying to catch my breath.
Across the hall was a discarded toaster oven, and in its burnished surface, I saw myself, the body of the girl in my trembling arms. The archways on each side of me - one to heaven, one to hell - were reflected too.
Something moved in the doorway to hell's lobby. Don't, I told myself. Don't look at it. But I couldn't help myself. A shadowy figure approached the doorway, and resolved. I caught a glimpse of a corpse white skeleton face, with a thick oily tongue constantly licking its rotting lips.
It was all I could do not to scream, drop the girl and run. I held my breath, trying not to get its attention. It can't leave and come out to get me. It's fine if I don't move. Don't look in its eyes.
I began to calm down but then, with a sick lurch I realized, if I could see Death then... lifting my eyes again to focus on the toaster, I saw it watching me, saw it grimace in recognition and hunger.
I woke.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Making babies, then running away
"How about Emma and Anna if they are twins?"
My best friend and I were standing in a cavernous lab, unloading bags of fresh produce from a stainless steel cart into a tiny refrigerator. I rambled off another handful of names for her future offspring.
She bent down to put away a canteloupe and pulled out a bottle of strawberry milk. She held it up to the light, examining it this way and that, then nodded, satisfied. "Now all we need is the sperm," she said.
We walked down the long hallway connecting other labs, stopping in at the ones I knew in order to ask for the missing ingredient, but everyone we met was female. "This is really inconvenient." Her voice was tense, and I could tell she blamed me for having such a gender imbalance in my workplace.
Finally we reached the end of the hall, which opened into the Biochemistry storeroom; the three male employees stood at a huge table sorting mail and exchanging inappropriate banter.
I wanted to ask the nearest person for assistance and leave quickly. My friend insisted on interviewing everyone. "To make the best CHOICE," she said.
All the employees wore black jeans and black button down dress shirts rolled up at the sleeves. I sat on the table, dangling my legs while she flirted with the man closest to us. He introduced himself as Frank.
Frank looked to be 50, was balding and short but had tanned muscular arms and an engaging, contagious smile. Even I felt the corners of my mouth lift, my irritation subside as I watched them from the corner of my eye. He glanced at the bottle of milk, and his eyes widened but his smile never wavered. My friend laughed. I could see her decision was made, no need to interview anyone else.
Just as my friend began asking for a donation, a tall man in a black cape swept into the room. He spoke briefly into the ear of the man at the far end of the table, and immediately the man stood ramrod straight, all but saluting. The second employee, directly to our right apparently received a similar message, as he also snapped to attention and stood unmoving at his post.
As Frank, oblivious to what I assumed was his supervisor, smiled wider and said, "Yes," to my friend, the tall man in the cape was suddenly at my elbow. He stood so close he was nearly touching me, but ignored me utterly. He leaned across my body, as if to whisper something confidential to Frank. His face, averted until this moment, came into profile - a luminous milky moonshine white, a hooked nose, small ice blue eyes - and I inhaled sharply from terror and recognition.
I watched helplessly as the man in the cape slid a remote over Frank's ear. Frank's face went slack, the smile gone from his lips and eyes.
I grabbed my friend's hand. She resisted me but I pulled her bodily out of the room, dragged her by the hand back down the hall. We ran all the way to my house, a three storey townhouse tucked into the side of a green belt. I had two neighbours, and all three houses sat at the far end of a long driveway.
My friend bent over on the front steps of the house, gasping, angry, still clutching her milk. "What in the hell is going on?"
I gave her the Coles' notes - I wasn't really from earth, the man in the cape was a Specter sent here to kill me - the last of my kind - and would probably also kill anyone who tried to help me. Blah, blah, blah, the usual boring interstellar plotline, could we please pack a small bag and LEAVE NOW???
In the foggy dusk shone distant headlights, slowly brightening. "They're coming. We have to GO." There wasn't time to pack. We ran into the house and up the stairs, finally emerging through a hidden staircase onto the roof.
When I peeked over the eave, I could see a small blood red convertible with the top down parked right outside my door. It was empty. Footsteps in the house. My heart felt like a jack hammer in my chest. My friend had disappeared. I took a running leap and landed on the roof of the house next door, then shimmied down a drain pipe to the ground.
It was quiet, the grass wet with evening mist. The house I'd landed on was abandoned, recently sold and the new owners had not moved in. My other neighbours were on vacation. Should I keep running? The Specter was fast, but not overly intelligent. It tracked like a bloodhound and would doggedly follow scents even if that meant going in circles over the same ground.
I began walking out complex patterns through all three houses. Canadian winters had made me an expert at that childhood snow game of Fox and Goose.
My best friend and I were standing in a cavernous lab, unloading bags of fresh produce from a stainless steel cart into a tiny refrigerator. I rambled off another handful of names for her future offspring.
She bent down to put away a canteloupe and pulled out a bottle of strawberry milk. She held it up to the light, examining it this way and that, then nodded, satisfied. "Now all we need is the sperm," she said.
We walked down the long hallway connecting other labs, stopping in at the ones I knew in order to ask for the missing ingredient, but everyone we met was female. "This is really inconvenient." Her voice was tense, and I could tell she blamed me for having such a gender imbalance in my workplace.
Finally we reached the end of the hall, which opened into the Biochemistry storeroom; the three male employees stood at a huge table sorting mail and exchanging inappropriate banter.
I wanted to ask the nearest person for assistance and leave quickly. My friend insisted on interviewing everyone. "To make the best CHOICE," she said.
All the employees wore black jeans and black button down dress shirts rolled up at the sleeves. I sat on the table, dangling my legs while she flirted with the man closest to us. He introduced himself as Frank.
Frank looked to be 50, was balding and short but had tanned muscular arms and an engaging, contagious smile. Even I felt the corners of my mouth lift, my irritation subside as I watched them from the corner of my eye. He glanced at the bottle of milk, and his eyes widened but his smile never wavered. My friend laughed. I could see her decision was made, no need to interview anyone else.
Just as my friend began asking for a donation, a tall man in a black cape swept into the room. He spoke briefly into the ear of the man at the far end of the table, and immediately the man stood ramrod straight, all but saluting. The second employee, directly to our right apparently received a similar message, as he also snapped to attention and stood unmoving at his post.
As Frank, oblivious to what I assumed was his supervisor, smiled wider and said, "Yes," to my friend, the tall man in the cape was suddenly at my elbow. He stood so close he was nearly touching me, but ignored me utterly. He leaned across my body, as if to whisper something confidential to Frank. His face, averted until this moment, came into profile - a luminous milky moonshine white, a hooked nose, small ice blue eyes - and I inhaled sharply from terror and recognition.
I watched helplessly as the man in the cape slid a remote over Frank's ear. Frank's face went slack, the smile gone from his lips and eyes.
I grabbed my friend's hand. She resisted me but I pulled her bodily out of the room, dragged her by the hand back down the hall. We ran all the way to my house, a three storey townhouse tucked into the side of a green belt. I had two neighbours, and all three houses sat at the far end of a long driveway.
My friend bent over on the front steps of the house, gasping, angry, still clutching her milk. "What in the hell is going on?"
I gave her the Coles' notes - I wasn't really from earth, the man in the cape was a Specter sent here to kill me - the last of my kind - and would probably also kill anyone who tried to help me. Blah, blah, blah, the usual boring interstellar plotline, could we please pack a small bag and LEAVE NOW???
In the foggy dusk shone distant headlights, slowly brightening. "They're coming. We have to GO." There wasn't time to pack. We ran into the house and up the stairs, finally emerging through a hidden staircase onto the roof.
When I peeked over the eave, I could see a small blood red convertible with the top down parked right outside my door. It was empty. Footsteps in the house. My heart felt like a jack hammer in my chest. My friend had disappeared. I took a running leap and landed on the roof of the house next door, then shimmied down a drain pipe to the ground.
It was quiet, the grass wet with evening mist. The house I'd landed on was abandoned, recently sold and the new owners had not moved in. My other neighbours were on vacation. Should I keep running? The Specter was fast, but not overly intelligent. It tracked like a bloodhound and would doggedly follow scents even if that meant going in circles over the same ground.
I began walking out complex patterns through all three houses. Canadian winters had made me an expert at that childhood snow game of Fox and Goose.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Welcome the unknown
In my dream I was juggling a lot of responsibilities and getting life advice from my best friend.
The last dream image before waking was of someone opening a door onto a huge, empty gymnasium.
The view was from the floor inside the gym. As the door opened, bright sun spilled inside, glinting off the glossy waxed floor. The room was clean even of dust and I felt a moment of dull panic.
Last clear dream thought: "Welcome the unknown."
I stayed in bed a minute or two letting the empty room be there, full of possibilities, rather than fear.
The last dream image before waking was of someone opening a door onto a huge, empty gymnasium.
The view was from the floor inside the gym. As the door opened, bright sun spilled inside, glinting off the glossy waxed floor. The room was clean even of dust and I felt a moment of dull panic.
Last clear dream thought: "Welcome the unknown."
I stayed in bed a minute or two letting the empty room be there, full of possibilities, rather than fear.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Fall of empire
I'm working this job. I'm at the top of my field inasmuch as you can be without achieving the holy grail of facultyship. I'm paid about as much as you can be as a non-tenured scientist in academia. I've got as much responsibility, autonomy and training as you can get in any job. I come into lab at 10am ish or whenever the hell I please, I can see the sky, the water, and the freeway overpass from a fifth floor window that Actually Opens, and I don't hate that I often work till 1 in the morning.
I can see the stress in the faces of faculty dealing with yet another budget crunch. I count colleagues departing from academia, only to wait months for a real job, one that bores them senseless.
I am paying enough attention to know the entire US economy is balanced on a tricky little ledge.
Though it's spring the air smells this certain way, like rotting leaves or imminent snow.
We are about to fall and I am going to miss all this.
I can see the stress in the faces of faculty dealing with yet another budget crunch. I count colleagues departing from academia, only to wait months for a real job, one that bores them senseless.
I am paying enough attention to know the entire US economy is balanced on a tricky little ledge.
Though it's spring the air smells this certain way, like rotting leaves or imminent snow.
We are about to fall and I am going to miss all this.
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