Wed, Nov. 7th, 2007, 10:56 am
, I now post only on my blogger blog. Come take a look
friday and i've slunked into work unshaven (unshorn?), my hair a vague cloud about my head, clapped in jeans and my obama for illinois shirt. god blessum the corner office, where i can hide behind my closed door, lurking like a lovecraftian shambler on the threshold, unobserved and thus unremarked.
though i may make or take a sojourn to the kitchenette thing in order to rapscallion me some coffee or tea. or some crude made mocha. days like these i don't feel like i'm really employed here at all. just some guy who wondered into the wrong building, found himself an empty office and decided to hang about checking the internet, wondering if he'd be stopped if he took the stash of cookies from the fridge. "Oh, me? I - I'm part of the Human Resources department. No - the Online Harpsichord Division. What's that? I don't really know, yet. I'm new. I'm hoping they'll tell me."
It would be interesting if every time you banged your elbow and set your funny bone to twanging visible rays of purple and blue light would emanate from said offended joint and radiate out and thrum in the air. Or if physical sensations could be apprehended visually by others. A cold, electric blue ache in somebody's cramped knee, for example, or a dull, snowfall static haze about a man's head indicating a headache. Imagine what a migraine would look like - a vast cloud of ink tincturing the air, rhythmically ebbing and flowing, all distances skewed when viewed through its terrible corpus, shot through occasionally with funnels of irradiating white light. Extending for yards and yards from the person's head, sometimes filling entire rooms, flowing down hallways and into elevators...
Sat, Jan. 24th, 2004, 11:10 am
Strange dream last night.
An underground Roman temple had been converted into a restaurant by the cultists who owned it. It was huge, built with massive stone blocks, torches flaring along the walls, thronged with fellow cultists dining out. Went in with Will and some other people to dine, sat down and examined the menu. All the dishes were shaped like ancient Roman boats and ships as seen from above - they looked like swords. Strange.
The meal the cultist restaurant was famous for was this woman. She stood in about twelve raised alcoves around the room, alive and talking to the diners. In each progressive alcove she was older than the last. Thus in the first she was a young woman of 18 years, and in the last she was a crone. What one did if you elected to eat her was take these spear length fondu forks and go up to her, talk to her if you liked, and then spear the fork into her flesh and tear some free, take the gobbet of meat back to your table and cook it over a flame there. If you chose to eat of her you had to work your way through each of the twelve alcoves. Pretty gruesome. Nobody at our table opted for that option; we all picked just appetizers.
(I think the woman was some sort of deity, an enemy of the cultist's goddess who had been defeated in a war long past and condemned to eternal torture in this restaurant.)
Other bits of my dream that I am too lazy to describe in full:
My being at an airport and missing my plane to the cult temple due to thinking I could still board at the last minute and just ride the moving sidewalks reading magazines - I was wrong.
Being led into the temple which, as a cover, was disguised as some sort of emergency water relief for the adjacent river. It was operated by smacking a squash ball into its rotten wooden supports so that they fragmented, lowering the temple's floor and allowing the water to run through it. This all made sense in my dream.
After the temple bit, being in a dugout with this fitness coach who was doing a question and answer session with these fanatical aerobic instructors.
Sat, Jan. 17th, 2004, 08:02 am
Dreamt that I was in a floating mini approaching a toll booth on the Amazon river. Was being chased by somebody familiar in a second mini, and we were shooting at each other discretely through our sunroofs. There was an Indian village on the bank on the right, and it was illegal to park our minis there.
We all got in line and were waiting to pass the toll booth when an argument flared up between the captain of the toll booth, the captain of a large boat before us (Russel Crowe) and the Indian chief, who was this wise old man who got Crowe really pissed off.
The indians were building this strange ramp up into the sky which channeled the river water not only against the current but against gravity. The point, I knew, was to build a reverse river into the sky, so the indian chief's son could sail up into the heavens and enlist the aid of their dead ancestors in fighting the forces of the white man that had destroyed their power and tribe.
Tue, Jan. 13th, 2004, 01:48 am
BERLIN (Reuters) - German police are investigating after an angry man returned a computer he had just bought saying it was packed with small potatoes instead of computer parts.
The store replaced the computer free of charge but became suspicious when he returned a short time later with another potato-filled computer casing, police in the western city of Kaiserslautern said on Monday.
"The second time he said he didn't need a computer any more and asked for his money back in cash," a police spokesman said.
Police are now investigating the man for fraud.
That's what I call a news story.
Sun, Jan. 11th, 2004, 01:39 pm
Ethereal and sublime. My friend and I arrived by canoe at this island, where we were greeted by a beautiful young chinese woman, who asked us to join her on shore. Suspecting a trap, I was wary, and when she played us false I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She laughed coldly, saying her friend was waiting, hidden, along the path that led up to the village, and we would never ascend it without being killed. I looked up the dark and tunnel-like path that rose up the hill under the canopy and saw her friend hidden in shadow - I called out to her, and to her disbelief she knew I had seen her, and slowly came forth.
The village was composed of long, low houses built in the ancient chinese style, painted crimson and filled with these beautiful chinese woman who hated us. Strangely enough, the far eastern side of the village was an out door mall of sorts, with clothing racks and tables set up on them, like the inside of a Bloomingdales.
We were all celebrating - because peace had finally been made and a friend of mine was marrying a chinese girl. This part was more like a musical, with everybody dancing, laughing, striking poses and playing in the mall area. Lots of silly fun, with that undercurrent of danger that had me watching my back at all times.
Then a group of male warriors charged in on us, killing my friends and the women they were going to marry, forcing me into hiding and despoiling the village. I swore revenge, and decided to hunt down the tree men who had killed my three companions.
What followed was an incredible hunting sequence through this massive chinese castle. All the chinese people were shapeshifters - they could assume the form of a certain animal. I was able to fly - though it was a very strange flight. What I would do is push off of something - a stone railing, or a massive ornamental lamp - and would soar slowly, as if through water, towards my destination, which I would latch onto (these jumps were never more than ten yards) and use my momentum to swing around and jump again, or simply hang there for a second before falling gently to the ground. It was glorious, thrilling, and very dangerous because I truly was soaring at a ridiculously slow speed while others were moving normally.
I only remember what happened at the end of the dream now. I had reached the top of the castle, where the second man was sparring with his son. He was shirtless, short and well muscled, with a look of mercilessness about him. I confronted him, and we fought, though his movements were hampered due to his desire to protect his son. The combat was incredible, and I finally killed him.
At this point the POV shifted to that of one of the chinese girls, who could soar much better than I could. She ascended with slow leaps and bounds all the way to the top of the castle, and there, in this dark kitchen, she fought the final man, who transformed himself into this long snake with a needle at the end of its tail. It was perhaps two yards long and she drifted around the air, darting blows with a thin shovel at where the snake danced, finally striking twice as it rounded a corner, cutting a small segement from the middle of its body and killing it, leaving it to shudder and twitch as it died.
The dream ended there, but I felt as if she cast herself off the cliff to die, having nothing left to live for now that her enemies were dead.
I've left out tonnes of details - some beautiful, others creepy - and at least two fifths of the whole dream because it is gone from me. It was all painted in vivid colors, with a dynamic and movie-esqe feel to it, charged with drama, eroticism and danger. And the slow soaring jumps I was able to take, pushing myself off from something and floating through the air towards the top of a lamp post, or a wall...
Sat, Jan. 10th, 2004, 04:09 pm
Interesting dream last night. Involved Paul.
We were all covert spies investigating a massive scientific/military compound - there must have been five of us. The building was truly gigantic, shaped like a vast, iron gray brick, all hard angles and sharp corners, covered with slate gray windows and fire escapes. We were attending a movie screening - that was our way in, and during the film we were planning on slipping out and exploring.
So - we line up outside, buy our tickets, are led to this movie theater inside that must have been able to seat at least 2000 people, except there were perhaps twenty five there. We sit way up at the top, and look for a way to escape but can't - we're being watched by tonnes of guards. Then some powerful dignitary makes his way in at the bottom - and during that moment I seize the opportunity to escape through a side door, leaving the others behind.
Out and into the science complex. I find myself accidentally stepping out into a courtyard of sorts which is watched by guards - they're everywhere. Door is locked behind me, and I know that I have to cross the gravel yard somehow to get to the next door. Which is impossible - or would be, if I didn't suddenly manifest this chameleon-like ability to change the surface of my body into the material I'm crossing over. So - thinking hard - I change my skin and slink out and around and up onto the landing and in through the door. Only to slip out into the far side of the courtyard again, and have to repeat the process. (sidenote: changing my skin and to a degree my body shape was very, very fun)
Into the corridors. Trying to avoid people who are walking around and in so doing end up ducking down a side corridor while being chased and then out a window and onto a fire escape and then down to the ground far below. Outside, free, but with my friends trapped within and stuck.
How to get back inside? I walk around, explore, go to the ticket booth and complain that I left my shoe or something in the movie theater. They call a Professor who asks me some questions and lets me back in. I sneak off down a side corridor and slip out once again into that courtyard. Back across, changing my skin, up and in, running and avoiding guards, dodging and hiding. End up in this secret room several levels below, where I meet some prisoners of war...
And then SHIFT
And I'm in a red caddy driven by this British friend of Mark's and we're killing time out in the countryside till this show starts and I'm in the backseat and somebody is riding shotgun. Looks like we're driving around Alabama, what with all the haystacks and pickup trucks and farms and whatnot.
Mark's friend has this cool magnet attached to his key chain that is incredibly powerful - as we drive slowly past this deserted gas tanker, he turns it on and gets all the small latches to unsnick themselves one by one. We start joyriding over some bumps, getting over five feet of air at times, and then we reach a field and I ask if I can drive over the next few bumps. Sure, he says, and I run over to check out the bumps - only to see that they're impossible to drive over, a trick in perspective, because each bump is over eight feet high, two feet long and with only a couple more feet between them. Disappointed I go back, and the dream ends.
Fri, Jan. 9th, 2004, 12:00 pm
New dream, brief sketch:
A robot gladiatorial fight. Began with what looked like a patrol of miniature storm troopers entering a steel room, with a voice over as to how deadly they were and how none of the old contenders could stand up to them. Then it changed, and it became my rubbery ectoplasmic organic robot thing versus another one that looked like a blend between an Atari and a skateboard.
Mine got its ass kicked, because I bought the two most powerful weapons and used them up straight away, missing my target. Which then mocked me and began to destroy my robot, until I crept up behind it and dropped a big brick on it.
Hahahaha, dumb ass skateboard robot.
Thu, Jan. 8th, 2004, 02:45 pm
Alternate Self in 6 years if I had gone to work on Wallstreet and remained hooked on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy:
I believe in taking care of
myself, in a balanced diet, in a
rigorous exercise routine. In the
morning, if my face is a little
puffy, I'll put on an ice
pack while doing my stomach
crunches. I can do a thousand
Bateman ties a plastic ice pack around his face.
Bateman does his morning stretching exercises in the living room wearing the ice pack.
A mirror-lined bathroom. Bateman is luxuriating in the shower steam, scrubbing his body, admiring his muscles.
After I remove the icepack, I use
a deep pore-cleanser lotion. In
the shower, I use a water-
activated gel cleanser, then a
honey-almond body scrub, and on
the face an exfoliating gel scrub.
Bateman stands in front of a massive marble sink applying a gel facial masque.
Then I apply an herb mint facial
masque which I leave on for ten
minutes while I prepare the rest
of my routine.
Bateman opens the door of a mirrored cabinet, which is stocked with immaculate rows of skin care products. He begins selecting bottles jars and brushes, laying them in readiness on the marble counter.
I always use an after-shave
lotion with little or no alcohol
because alcohol dries your face
out and makes you look older.
Then moisturizer, then an anti-
aging eye balm, followed by a
final moisturizing "protective"
Bateman stares into the mirror. The masque has dried,
giving his face a strange distorted look as if it has been wrapped in plastic. He begins slowly peeling the gel masque off his face.
There is an idea of a Patrick
Bateman, some kind of abstraction,
hut there is no real me, only an
entity, something illusory, and
though I can hide my cold
gaze and you can shake my hand
and feel flesh gripping you
and maybe you can even sense our
lifestyles are probably
comparable: I simply am not there.