Open Letter

This probably should go on the Portland/Portland blog I share with Jake (yet to be viewed by eyes other than our own), but I figure Jake hasn't posted in it lately, and neither have I, so oh well.

This is also a brief "break" I'm taking on my NaNoWriMo project during the home stretch.

... and reading through it, it may as well be an advertisement for the Oregon Tourism Board along with a "get Jake to come to Portland" campaign from how many businesses I link.

As much as I complain about being cold, I have to admit that autumn is my favorite season. It's the perfect weather for leather jackets. I now have three thanks to my rather doting father. I have two short ones I bike to work in that just go to the waist: one in black and the other in a patchwork of browns and tans that is a bit more suede-y. Then there's my black leather trenchcoat. As much as I love strolling around the Southeast side, watching the leaves cascade to the ground and smiling at occasional passers-by, I enjoy it much more when in the black leather trenchcoat. Yes, I'm a dork, but I just can't help but feel completely badass while walking, hair blowing in the wind, but not feeling cold since the black leather shields me like armor.

I get home from work by bike, glad that it hadn't rained and extremely grateful for the driver who stopped on MLK, causing the other lanes of cars to follow suit while I made the crossing. The sun had set as I was biking down the Eastbank Esplanade. I like passing through the bronze archway and I usually say hello to Vera (or at least the bronze sculpture of her sitting by the Main Street turnoff, considering they named the Esplanade after her) as I cruise by.

It is dark and a slight wind had picked up. Still warm from biking uphill the rest of the way home from 12th street, I switch from my black short jacket to the trenchcoat, sort of like Mr. Rogers, but without the cozy cardigan. I grab an apple from the kitchen, rinse it off and depart once more. I have to pick up some things at the produce tent on 23rd and Hawthorne to prepare for dinner Friday night (post-Thanksgiving). In particular, acorn squash and the brussels sprouts still on the stalk that I had been curious about the last time I had been to the produce tent, a couple of days ago when I got the apples. My squash stuffed with succotash experiment (lima beans, corn, sweet potatoes and spicy fake sausage) seemed to have worked out, so I figured it would make for a nice offering for our post-Thanksgiving potluck.

My boots feel much heavier as I walk on the ground than on my bike. For some reason, I'm much more comfortable on the bike with heavy shoes than my usual light pair of chucks. I crunch into the apple after locking the door. It is sweet with a bit of bite to it. My lips automatically press together, sinking my cheeks inward. I can barely hear anything over the chomping sounds, bits of apple grinding against my back teeth before I swallow. Tart juice runs down my throat and stinging my slightly chapped lips each time I bite into the apple.

I cross the intersection at 18th and Madison diagonally, perfectly in line with my theory of pythagorean walking. Even though I wasn't that hungry when I got home, I take large, gouging bites out of the apple. When I had pulled it out of the paper bag on the kitchen table, it was probably one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. It was round, flat at the top, tapering to the bottom. The mottled red and green shone even in my dim kitchen light. Then again, it was probably just as beautiful when I was rummaging through the basket of honeycrisp apples in the produce tent, checking each apple for bruises or spots, occasionally smelling them. I remember when I had been walking home from the store hugging my reusable bag out of the risk the straps would rip from their seams due to the weight. The paper bag of apples sat on top, right against my nose and I could smell their sweetness.

My boots make whispering sounds as I shuffle my feet through the yellow leaves on the ground. The leaves seem to follow me once I get to a clear patch of sidewalk. A block later, I try to stay out of the way of the lady raking her yard, stuffing rake-fuls of leaves into a tall brown paper bag. It was around here that I thought about how much I wanted to share this all with you, the taste of the apple, the pavement beneath my boots, that somehow I should write this all down or tell you about it the next time you're online. So, I did.

I figure it's the next best thing to actually having you around.

At 20th, I turn for Hawthorne. I usually take Madison to avoid the noise of traffic, but the lights draw me out. I wait to cross in front of the CineMagic and Coventry Cycle Works. The new James Bond movie's playing, but I wasn't too keen on seeing it. Also, the guys at Coventry managed to save my precious bicycle twice when I managed to mess up the shifter cable and when I somehow screwed my new pedals onto the crankshaft wrong, resulting in the threading getting completely fracked up (not to mention the steel from the new pedal sort of cut through the aluminum crank as if it were made out of cheese).

The little white man in the walk signal flashes on. I wait for a bicyclist to turn, but it seems like they're going to just go straight and pass me. There's some construction going on where a huge church used to be. Someone had written in sharpie "Ask about affordable housing" on the "For Rent" sign. Large tarps flap in the wind as I pass. Nearby a set of condos loom, slightly taller than the surrounding houses down the block. I casually toss the core of my apple into their bushes. It's biodegradable, so I don't really consider it littering. I lick the remaining drops of juice off the palm of my hand, but it still remains slightly sticky. A block later, there is broken glass all over the sidewalk. It glitters, menacing, like a false reflection of the night stars. A girl cautiously passes me on her bicycle and I almost instinctively shout to her, advising she should check her tires when she gets back to make sure none of the glass got embedded in it (yeah, that's another way I fracked up my bike), but I don't. She probably knew that anyway.

I soon pass the Bakery. A woman passes by me in a long black wool coat, munching on something in their familiar wax paper. It might have been a scone or a croissant or even one of their cinnamon rolls. The apple was gone, but not forgotten enough to the point where I would feel like noshing again. I remember many a time I had walked home from the bakery with the original intent of just picking up a como loaf and ended up picking up something sweet or buttery as a snack, tearing into it as I walked back home, not in the least bit self-conscious that I was getting frosting on my face or crumbs all over my chest. I couldn't help but almost relive that sort of simple enjoyment after watching that woman bite into whatever was concealed in that wax paper.

Then I think about when I was searching online for things about Cannon Beach. Apparently, there's a Cannon Beach Bakery that makes a signature bread called the Haystack loaf. It was modeled after Haystack Rock. If you come out here for a visit, I might rent out a zipcar and drive you up there. I hear there's a good plenty of hiking spots and getting you here might give me an excuse to finally get a decent pair of hiking shoes and get some proper use out of them.

Across from the bakery, my destination. A good number of people trickle in and out, picking up supplies for Thanksgiving dinner. I saw a lady carry out a rather large bag of chestnuts. I said hi to a friend of a friend who lived in the building next to my old apartment. He waved, gathered his change and produce from the clerk and left.

There were only a few acorn squash left, but I made sure to pick a couple of small ones along with a different squash for good measure. It was small and orange, like a pumpkin, but smoother and without the ridges. Apparently it had "the distinct taste of chestnuts," so that piqued my curiosity. At 89 cents a pound, it didn't hurt to be curious. Then I fingered through the standing stalks of brussels sprouts. They were more or less identical in greenness, but I ended up picking one that had an additional partial branch off from the bottom, picking another one that did not have additional branches, then going back to the original one anyway. In a brown envelope were printed recipes for grilling them. I probably should have picked up the recipe for the strange new squash I picked up, but I figure all else fails, cutting it in half, putting a bit of olive oil on it and popping it in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour should work well enough.

I linger a bit, even though I don't really need much else, since there's a line at both check stands. I pick up a couple of sweet potatoes for good measure (yay sweet potato fries!). As I wait in line, someone stocking fruit behind me points to the other check stand, letting me know that I can go there. The guy behind the counter comments that I made it easy for him since everything I picked (except for the brussels sprouts stalk, which was $1.99) was the same price per pound. I hadn't realized that, but that was pretty awesome.

The stalk is a bit awkward in my bag, so I end up holding it in one hand, leaning into my shoulder like I'm holding a rifle. I walk home with the thought, "I'm safe. Should anyone attack me for whatever reason, I am armed with brussels sprouts." I also muse that I'm pretty much preparing a good amount of post-Thanksgiving dinner food for at least four people for less than $10.00. Although, to be fair, it is a potluck.

Of course, no one attacks me, or even gives me a peculiar look for carrying a stalk of brussels sprouts with pride. When I get home, that's pretty much right about the time you came in to read this.

For all I know, this just bored you out of your mind. I know that in all truth, it is just a mundane exercise, going out and picking up food, coming home from work. For some reason, I can't help but dwell on it sometimes, the fact that the actions, while similar, are never exactly the same twice.

That one entry where Valerie obsessively logs what she eats for a week.

Does what it says on the tin... I'm not sure I'm going to bother "dieting" after this so much as try to be a bit more conscious of what I'm eating.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Breakfast/Lunch (as I got up late and was hungover from last night's debauchery):
- a bit of soyrizo
- two eggs
- two slices of toast
- half a small melon (don't recall the name, looked like a honeydew on the outside, a cantaloupe on the inside.

Snack:
- Mission Tortilla Chips (possibly more or less than the recommended serving size of 12 chips)

Dinner:
- leftover Navrattan Curry from India Grill (the amount filled about half of one of those small folded paper takeaway containers)
- bit of rice
- 1 6 oz. container of Tillamook French Vanilla Yogurt

Snack:
- another bit of leftover rice mixed with sesame seeds and wrapped in nori

Monday, September 22, 2008

Breakfast:

- bit of leftover ramen found in the fridge before realizing it had gone off and tossing it

- two packets of cinnamon instant oatmeal

Lunch:

- cucumber roll and salmon skin salad from Mio Sushi

Dinner/snack:
- two yukon gold potatoes julienned and roasted in toaster oven
- half a small pearl honeydew melon
- 10 pieces of Full Moon Feta and Squash Ravioli with tomato sauce

Neal Stephenson is Awesome

So, after another day in the tech support mines (seriously, we're inside a cave inside an old loft-converted warehouse inside a really nice neighborhood), I walked down Madison and Hawthorne to the Bagdad Theater to see Neal Stephenson, author of Snow Crash, The Diamond Age, Cryptonomicon, The Baroque Cycle (which I prefer to refer to as "The M*therf*cking Baroque Cycle" because it's so hardcore... it's like the Samuel L. Jackson of Historical Fiction). He was there to read a bit from his new book Anathem followed by a Q&A and book signing. I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't more of a formal talk, but it was still fun and interesting.

There's also apparently an actual talk that he had done regarding the ever-changing world of technology and how it's affecting science fiction online. He had brought it up when someone had asked a question regarding this, but his succinct answer to it, other than "linking" us to the talk online (even referring to fora.tv as "a thinking person's youtube"), was to state that science fiction permeates the world more than other genres. We see it in books, movies, video games. Also, he made a rather witty aphorism (perhaps I am not thinking of the right term) regarding technology. I will attempt to paraphrase (albeit badly in comparison to what he probably did say):

"Technology is whatever was invented after you were born and is so new that it doesn't work yet. The buttons on your shirt are not technology to you since you're familiar with them... and they work."

But I'm already sort of getting ahead of myself.

Stephenson (I don't know, calling him "Neal" seems a bit too casual) opened up with the literary equivalent of opening a 40 and pouring some of it on the corner for David Foster Wallace, who killed himself recently. He said that Wallace was "the best of us" and highly recommended that we read his work, especially seeing as how there will no longer be any more of it. I'm not sure if it is a sad or a good thing that when I looked at Powell's Online to find the links for the above books that David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest was in the top five.

After peering around the theater and saying something to the effect of, "You all have beer. I would have come here sooner if I had known that we could have beer at these things." in bemusement, he read a bit from Anathem, which I think was from somewhere near the beginning where the main character Fraa Erasmus (Raz) and Fraa Orolo interact with an extramuros (someone who lives out the math/monastary), called Artisan Quin. It got a few good laughs, particularly due to details that seem like they would fit well in our world, but we take them granted as such. The fact that Fraa Orolo has to have a questionnaire for the saecular world in order to navigate it for apert (the rare time when the math opens and allows outsiders in and when the Fraas and Suurs get to leave for ten days once a year, decade, century or even millennia depending on the math).

I guess I ought to pull over and provide a summary of Anathem. If you were to boil it down to really reductive basics, it's about monks in the future who devote their lives to science as opposed to faith because the world around them is so politically and socially unstable that they have to cloister themselves off. The world is divided into the avout (the science/philosophical-minded) and the saecular (everyone else). This whole premise reminds me of what's going on in our country right now and the tried-and-sadly-true strategem of the GOP of "disparage and devalue intellectualism." Not to mention all the hoopla and "what's the point" regarding the Large Hadron Collider. Would it be all that hard to believe that the world will split off into two such groups?

During the Q&A people lined up and asked their varied questions. Of course, I had expected the sort of crowd that surrounded me, mostly geeks. One of them even came up and plugged an event they were hosting, asking Stephenson if he would make an appearance. I think it was some sort of cyborg-related convention. Stephenson politely declined, claiming that he already had commitments that weekend.

When it came to more literary questions, it ranged from the polite/not-so-polite version of "Why are your books so damn long?" to a really wordy question asking about the effects of the world on his writing or how he thinks sci-fi writing affects the world. The answer to the first question was rather astute, just saying that he writes until he's done. Someone next to me commented that it was the dreaded "ending" question, especially considering how he writes endings that tend to completely screw with people. The answer to the second question was pretty much the one mentioned above, "linking" to a talk online regarding the subject.

I particularly liked his answer to a question regarding how or if he takes "literary" angles into consideration. He basically said that if you think too much about what grandiose aims you mean to prove or how to sell something, you'll never get anything done. This is similar to advice other authors have given to me. The guy in front of me in the signing line was another writer was also a writer, so Stephenson stated that he (and I) should just keep writing. He said to just write, keep going and then throw it away... not throw it away, but just put it down. By the time I had gotten through the line, he had already signed over 200+ books, so I understand how some of the communications wires can get crossed. I sheepishly confessed that I'm not good at revision, to which he replied that even that will get easier if I just do it more often.

It's pretty much what everyone, writer and non-writer has been advising me to do, just to keep trying. Or, more accurately, keep doing. It does me no good just navel gazing and having existential crises. Even shitty writers who do that and still manage to crank out a few novels get paid at least some of the time. In other words, I will not get any satisfaction, let alone compensation for novels or short stories that I don't write.

What is interesting is that Stephenson also recommended writing an hour a day at most. In the back notes for The Baroque Cycle, there are scans of the longhand manuscripts that he had handwritten. It's one thing to write a book that is 1000 pages. It's another to have handwritten it first. So, I may have to be a bit more focused in my approach, as opposed to rattling off a few pages on google documents here and there when I have breaks at work. I suppose it's sort of like how I used to practice the piano every day for at least an hour (sometimes much more than that during festival season).

Well, I don't play the piano anymore (though I did just start the dulcimer), so I'll have to rehone my focus elsewhere.

Also, in the mean time, I have quite a bit of reading to do.

On a closing note, when I get to meet an author or performance artist I admire, I usually go blathering psychotic fangirl. I suppose I went sort of quiet fangirl who was cautious about keeping the line moving instead this time. Maybe I wasn't as giddy as a teenager at a boyband/emo/whatever the hell it is those damn kids are listening to these days concert, but maybe I'm finally starting to see my sort of "heroes" as real people. I mean, I've hung out with enough Guests in Residence at Allen Hall to realize that fate doesn't just tap some people on the shoulder and tell them that they're either going to fight the power, help change the world and/or just tell a damn good story. You (and by "you," I really mean "I") really need to work your ass off, even just to stay afloat.

Also, I think I'm at the stage where I'm not so much in awe of an author like Stephenson for "making it," by being able to draw crowds at readings, sell a good number of books, be relatively recognizable and well-known in the sci-fi/literary world, etc. Instead, I deeply appreciate the fact that he does as previously mentioned, tell a damn good story and tell it well. He creates characters that I would like to meet in person, whether it's someone like Hiro Protagonist from Snow Crash, Eliza or "Half-cocked" Jack Shaftoe from The Baroque Cycle who live in worlds I'd either like to see or worlds that don't seem that much different from my own.

Ok, before I completely go off the deep end of ceasing to make sense, I ought to call it a night, hit the showers/hay/what have you.

Story ideas from dreams #(I lost track): "Corridors"

Story idea: Based on dream I had last night (09/14/2008). I was at my old high school, walking down the hallways, rows of lockers painted red on each side. The corridor kept getting smaller until I had to crawl through to the other side. For some reason, the Ladd's Addition Videorama was on the other side and Will was still working there. He seemed a bit puzzled to see me, especially since it seemed like I had just randomly come out of a tier of shelves from the back wall. He told me that he wasn't going to be able to make the Neal Stephenson talk (which is oddly timely and relevant for one of my usually non-sequitur dreams). Of course, I was mildly disappointed, but I was still glad to see him again. Another time, I was walking home in the middle of winter, going down various hallways that kept getting smaller and smaller until I ended up going under a set of stairs. When I got there, I ran into Will. We had a long conversation, at some point we held hands. Yes, it was a rather sweet, sappy wish-fulfillment dream, but it was still nice.

Anyway, to further develop this idea/geek out in a horrible way, what I would like to do is write  a story about a man who keeps coming across a young girl/woman who stumbles into his store (either a scientific equipment shop or bookstore, although bookstore might be a bit too "Time Traveler's Wife" ). He watches her grow up, navigate through the confusion of adolescence, becoming an adult, finding her own way through life and develops a fondness for her.

Well, it turns out that he is actually a supervillain (I warned you that I was going to geek out in a horrible way). He had jumped universes to try to make sure that this version of the girl did not grow up to be a hero, but someone normal. But of course, she ends up uttering the age-old line, "No matter what (universe I'm in), I'm still me" and proceeds to kick his ass.

Although there will probably be a bittersweet ending where both of them somewhat regret what happened.

Maybe the universe explodes.

I haven't made up my mind yet.

Waning Nostalgic

Four days isn't a long time, even if the two of them spent in airport terminals and transcontinental flights feel lengthy.

I went back to my old alma mater this weekend, but without the prerequisite drunken scaling and attempted making out with of the bronze sculpture. For one thing, my knee was still slightly messed up from wiping out on my bike and I'll be damned if I get injured due to my own stupidity while on vacation.

First obstacle, my flight was delayed, so unfortunately I was unable to make it to my old employer's/textbook store in time before they closed. I had even transported a pink box of Voodoo Doughnuts for their enjoyment, as per our unofficial tradition of me going somewhere and then bringing back some sort of goody for the text department to share. I texted and called a couple of people to check in/apologize for not making it. Then I alerted whoever I could think of who was in my cell phone contact list and most likely to still be in town that I would be at Murphy's around 8:00 p.m. when I arrived at the airport.

Anyway, Green Street was pretty deserted considering it was 1) summer and b) Memorial Day weekend so anyone actually still taking class was probably home visiting family anyway. Jenna and I ate dinner at Za's for old time's sake. It was the first and last campustown place we ate at as students, not to mention a bunch of times in between that. Jenna and I then walked around the quad, tried to get into the English Building to find a bathroom, but in vain since the building was locked up and then wandered off to the Union building to use the ladies' room.

We ended up at Murphy's a bit early. The crowd was a bit thin and conversation was easy to hear despite the random spurts of blaring country music from the jukebox. The first to show up was BJ, whom I introduced to Jenna. I was amused that they had both taken Mammalology together and exchanged various biology/environmental sciences course related stories. Forrest and Mendez showed up not too long after. I had not expected to see Mendez considering he was going to school at SIUC now. They almost fooled me by saying that Steve was in town, but I probably ought to have known better considering he's in med school somewhere in the Caribbean. Sadly, I knew Danielle was in Chicago looking for a job post-graduation and Kerri was out of town until Sunday (which turned out to be later than that due to car problems), so the TIS reunion was far from complete. Honk showed up, much to my surprise considering he had said in his usually brusque, but honest way, "I don't particularly like Murphy's much and I don't know any of the people you'll be hanging out with, so I may or may not come."

It was almost like I never left, the dudes made fun of me and my somewhat squished and slightly stale donuts (I had picked them up Thursday night) yet seemed to appreciate the sugar. I ran into my friend Will(Liam) from high school newspaper and talked to him briefly before returned to the group he had come in with. Then Ben showed up and I disproved my theory that he and BJ are the same person.

In all truth, I really don't need to recap a play by play. The important part is that it really was a lot like I had put my Chambana life down like a novel with a bookmark in it and then just picked it up right where I left off. I even spent the night at Honk's, sharing a cigar with him and watching Venture Brothers after our usual constitutionals. We did joke a bit about how we're becoming old people. After breakfast and a day of Scrabble, crossword puzzles, watching House and even more Venture Brothers, I packed up my little bag and went to Jenna's for even more sugar and anime and strolling about on the quad taking random pictures of interesting things.

The weekend went by so quickly that I feel like I blinked and four years of my life evaporated. Granted, not everyone who was involved in those four years were there, but I feel at least some of the most important people were there.

Part of me wishes that I could say that I learned some sort of huge lesson this weekend... or came to terms with the baggage I carried with me to Portland or resolved some unfinished history. This wasn't one of those vacations. It wasn't meant to be. It was just a chill, lazy couple of days when I got to see some people who actually missed me. Even if I wasn't on their minds every day, it's nice to have someone glad to see you when you do turn up randomly.

What's sad is this is reading more like one of my old myspace entries, but without any mentions of angsting over exes or drinking myself sick. Granted, I felt a mild pang of wanting to try to convince Honk to come out to Portland, but hell, I've been doing that for awhile now. Besides, we're not really exes if we never dated.

But yeah... growing up. Losing touch with friends despite best efforts. Figuring out what I want before I resign myself to being an office girl for the rest of my life. I'll sort that all out as it comes.
All I know is that even though I'm slowly becoming an old lady, I'm still me no matter what time zone I'm in.

I am a consumer whore.

I've always been fascinated with the psychological aspect of cosmetic changes: the whole idea that changing something about yourself on the outside could help spark a reaction to change something inside, increase confidence or what-have-you.

If I could afford it and somehow had magic hair that grew on a whim, I would get my hair cut at least once a week. Not necessarily because I'm vain -- granted, I am, but that's beside the point-- but because I like the intensity of someone paying that much attention to me for that long of a period of time without me having to do anything or try to be impressive or intellectual. I also like the idea of being a living piece of art, which also draws me to body modification. But as far as the attention thing is concerned, I spend a good deal of time being not so much invisible, but unobtrusive.

Maybe this is also the real reason why I go out to eat when I've had a bad day. I could probably cook a good deal of the types of food that I end up ordering, so maybe it really does come down to my ambivalence toward having attention paid to me. I generally like being unobtrusive, but at least a consumer exchange between me and a server or a hair stylist is in a controlled setting where there are certain types of protocol concerning interaction.

However, instead of getting my hair cut again, I decided to do something a bit different. I had tried to find the stylist at Cutting Crew on Hawthorne who had did a good job cutting my hair the way they did at Red Hair back in Champaign (next to the Evo's and a couple doors down from TIS bookstore), but apparently she works somewhere on Division and 43rd. I actually walked down there only to not see her in the window, so I ended up going back to Hawthorne and going into Bishop's. I did have the original intention of cutting my hair, but then I remembered that I was actually trying to grow it out again. So, out came an old idea I had: to color my hair a shade of grey. It was meant to be in rebellion against the "family tradition" on my father's side of going gray early in life, but spending a ridiculous amount of money over the rest of my life hiding that fact. Also, to touch on my more nerdy sense of aesthetic, some really cool anime and comic book characters have gray hair.

I spent a pleasant two hours at Bishops getting the ever-loving hell bleached out of my head and after the initial wooziness from the bleach fumes wore off, I had a beer. At first when they called my name from the sign-in sheet, I was afraid that Sonsirea (the colorist) was just looking at me as if I was crazy, but as it turns out, she had actually been working on a new formula she referred to as "blue steel." I almost made a joke about her coming up with another one called "magnum" but figured I already used enough of my dork points as it was with my anime and comic book references without pulling out a reference to Zoolander. I loved the fact that she was completely into the process of color experimentation. I imagine painters are the same way, mixing pigments trying to find the perfect combination. I also love hanging around barbershops just to look at the various pieces equipment each stylist uses. I'm especially fond of places that keep their kits in craftsman tool-style metal cabinets and toolboxes.

People would come by just to visit. One guy had the most adorable wrinkly-faced puppy, which was only 9 weeks old but good-sized and still growing. One of Sonsirea's friends came with another friend who wanted a haircut. After almost an hour, it was a bit of a shock to see myself butter-blonde, but I'm glad that didn't last long before the dye was put on. I honestly don't think the universe could handle me as a blonde.

After two bowls of bleach, two applications of toner, here are the results (don't ask me how much it cost but I believe that the end justifies the means):

I have superhero hair.

It's sort of funny since the pictures make it look like my hair hasn't changed all that much. But in the right light, my hair pretty much looks like the sky on any given day in Portland as opposed to the rather nondescript mottled black and brown it has been for the past couple of years. Maybe another reason I went with the gray was because with the random sunny days here, I still need my head to be in the clouds.

As older bro would say, peace and chicken grease.

Only in dreams...

...am I able to do the following:
1.) Run across town at superhuman speeds to be with the guy I'm in love with.
2.) Have a cigarette with Elliott Smith.

I used to stop logging my dreams since I thought that the whole "reading into the subconscious mind to fulfill potential and unaddressed desires" thing was a bunch of crap. Still, these two were the most interesting I've had awhile.

1.) My friend Liz from middle/high/college and I were working backstage back at our old high school for some reason even though we were the ages we are now and nowhere near SHS. Out of nowhere, I decide to leave so I can be with :name excluded due to current relevance: who is across town at the movie theater/astronomical observatory. Liz gets a bit mad and asks me "What about all the hard work we put into this?" And I just shrug and tell her things will be fine, the show can run itself after all the setup I did.

The amazing part is the running. I was somewhere between flying and running really fast. I could feel my feet hitting pavement, grass, even the hoods of cars just to get all the way across town (which oddly seems to be more like Portland and not Springfield). I run at an incredible speed without my joints giving out, my muscles aching from lactic acid buildup, my heart pounding or my lungs gasping for air. I don't even think about traffic, but actually run over the cars regardless as to whether or not they are moving.

When I get to the theater/observatory, the "show" is over and the house lights are up, revealing a gorgeous old-style movie theater surrounding me. The ceiling is high. The walls and pillars are beige with gorgeous detailed tapestries on them. I can see that the curtains are still drawn open though, with a gorgeous night sky/universe swirling around on the stage/screen. :Name excluded due to current relevance: is standing in one of the aisles as the rest of the audience has mostly cleared out. He smiles at me as if to tell me that he wasn't expecting to see me tonight.

This is when I wake up. I was a bit disappointed that this hadn't happened...but of course, not as disappointed as when I woke up from the next dream.

2.) For some reason I'm back at TIS Bookstore and Danielle of all people is excited about winning some contest she won where she gets to hang out/go on a date with Elliott Smith (who is mysteriously still alive without anyone commenting on this fact). I mean, for one thing, as I mentioned in the parenthetical expression, Elliott Smith is dead. Another thing, Danielle is engaged. What would she be doing going on a date with Elliott Smith?

However, the even more bizarre fact of Elliott Smith even participating in such a PR gimmick is actually explained in my dream. I have a smoke outside the front of the store (which would probably cause Jon to pitch a fit since he usually wants the smoking employees nowhere near the store) and there's Elliott Smith, leaning against the large glass storefront window (that Jon hires someone to clean at least once a month) and having a cigarette. He actually looks exactly the same as he does on the cover art of the albums, although, come to think of it, it wasn't that long ago when he committed suicide.

I'm probably filling in more details than actually occurred in the dream since I remember the dream being much shorter than it probably takes to write/read this. But anyway, Elliott explains that his record company randomly thought this "win a date with..." was a good idea and he actually went along with it just for the hell of it. He thought Danielle was cool, but not really his type. I just nod and shrug, almost uncharacteristically laconic considering if I had actually met Elliott Smith (and he were still alive), I would probably be going all annoying fangirl on him. For the most part, we just lean against the window, smoking and not saying much of anything.

Right before I wake up, he finishes his cigarette, crushes it on the pavement and walks away. My first thought as my radiator rudely wakes me is, "Holy shit. I just had a smoke with Elliott Smith."