High crimes

I dreamed that the two-year old girl executed for crimes against the state looked directly at me just before the axe fell, and smiled.


Thirty pages, day 28

Day 28: Another one from the dream diary.


1 May, 2007

I’ve been elected to Canadian Parliament! Of course I have to arrive late, and sheepishly try to slip into a random chair, but the PM notices me & laughs.

Waving, embarrassed, I find my way to my assigned seat, which is all the way in back. My chair is abnormally high. Next to me there’s a man eating pizza, who can’t stop complaining that he got some British version of pizza, and not an American one.

Turning back, I knock my tea over onto the woman in front of me. She yells at me for ruining her “expensive lingerie.”

I offer to replace it, after work. “I should,” I say.

“Yes,” she responds, “you really should.”


Thirty pages, day 27

Day 27: way too late.

I’m sorry! I’ve had a really icky cold (which I’m still on the tail end of) and have been feeling otherwise uninspired.

Still! Last week, David pointed me at this great illustrated Monster Camp dream by Emmy Cicierega. Well, I can only fantasize about being able to draw like that, but was inspired (& definitely have some vivid dreams!), so I pulled out my dream-diaries and chose one to embellish with some truly terrible art.

3 January, 2007

As princess of a kingdom at war, I’ve been held prisoner by my father’s enemy for two years. However, in that time he & I have become very close, and I’ve fallen in love with his son. The prince, however, is concerned that my father doesn’t know him, and comes up with a hare-brained scheme to start a fight with his own father in order to be banished to my father’s castle, in the hope that a similar friendship will form between them.

I think it’s a terrible idea & try to stop him, but he is undeterred, and soon I’m accompanying him back home (he encased in blue, stone armor, packaged in a blue shipping crate). Father greets him coldly, as I knew he would, but the prince keeps saying things like, “Would you like to have a cup of tea with me for a couple hours? We could talk and get to know each other.” The dungeon’s walls are cold, damp stone. “We could sup together,” he adds, & I roll my eyes. But somehow, my father is charmed and agrees to dinner. They leave together and I just stare after them in disbelief. Men!


“We could sup together”? Who actually says something like that?


I am legend

As quickly as it came, it went; Good-bye, GNE, sleep well, and Thank You for the best April 1 on record. Sniff.

Took out Alan Moore’s Promethea: Book 1 from the library, even before I’d read a single page of Preacher. I feel like I’m getting a bit ahead of myself, but it only seemed appropriate after a night spent dreaming I was a super-powered reincarnation of Cleopatra, fighting terrorists with the ability to see actions as words on a printed page and affect their fates through copyeditor’s marks. Seriously. And! You should have seen it, loves — my costume was amazing, a thing of bronze and silk and leather, full of reptilian ferocity. The Editrix, I think, as a name. Don’t you?

That’s right, I even get to cosplay in my sleep. If that’s not a superpower, I don’t know what is.


Of OpenID and tooldom

I’ve been dreaming of many wild and colorful things, but always of not-quite-there, too late, too short, too tired, too young — but at least I’m not constantly dreaming of final exams anymore. I mean, seriously, it’s been eight years since I graduated from any type of school. Get over it already!

The bar in my dreams seemed to be serving Ocean Spray sangria, so it’s just as well I couldn’t reach.

Speaking of cameraphones: anyone who knows me at all realizes I’m all about tiny & cute, but it’s hard to deny the appeal of this thing. I think it’s from all my lawyer friends whipping out BlackBerries all the time, or maybe it’s just about blogging from a cell phone — but is it worth the cost of looking like a gigantic tool? Help me!

Mark Paschal has released a beta version of OpenID Comments for MT 1.3, which fixes the long sign-in problem, so feel free to sign in with your LiveJournal or OpenID username to comment if you want. Yay!


Jane Eyre

I dreamt of tall grass and flames; standing on the ridge with a hole in my arm and my heart, all I could do was watch and cry. But we can wait, and hope.

Am slowly reliving old television miniseries of my childhood — already wrote about 1982’s The Scarlet Pimpernel with Jane Seymour and Anthony Andrews, and last night started re-watching the 1983 BBC Jane Eyre with Timothy Dalton and Zelah Clarke, just released on disc, which I remember with untold amounts of affection (though perhaps I should cut out the “re-,” since at 311 minutes and uncut, it’s quite a bit longer than the one I saw on videocassette back in middle school).

Jane Eyre is one of my all-time favorite books, so I was happy to see that not only is this as good as I remember from my wide-eyed & romantic childhood, it’s actually better! Though Jane is not so plain, Blanche not so beautiful, and Rochester far too dashing*, it still all works; and really, the casting couldn’t be better, because after one gets over the physical incongruities, everything else — acting, dialogue, sets, chemistry — I swear, it was like I was a teenager again!

Hope to finish up tonight, or later this weekend, and maybe some sort of Austen marathon for dessert? Bonnets and bustles and waistcoats: oh! I’ll be intolerable and happy, to be sure.

* oh, but we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?


Mother’s Day

Awoke with fresh tears in my eyes. Another visitation from my dream-daughter, the one who has haunted my dreams but speaks only of death? But no, I do not remember her: though there was a church, a waterfall, a long fall…

Sometimes I am there again, walking delicately through a rainbow bed of fallen foliage, as soft sunset light falls through the canopy overhead and brushes my hair. There is no noise, nor rustle of breeze, and improbably, the leaves do not even crumple beneath my bare feet. Here is where she appeared first, apparition-like, with her words of love, of loss — soft-spoken, but heavy as a drum. A gift and message from the future. A future, one not mine, but hers.

She says: I wanted to meet you, just once.

Once. The word is what it is: final, fatal, unambiguous.

But there I go again, and wait. Because I do not choose or know where I travel, in dreams, though tears remind me.


No guns in prison

Random sequence from a recent dream:

“They’re advertising a new vacation concept: Spend a week in prison.”
“I could never do that, I don’t like guns.”

tardigrades, water bears, moss piglets…

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