my mind haunts me

Ok, here's what I don't get.

I finally went to bed, I read for while, got up and watched two episodes of Daria, then went to bed again. I read a little bit more, went to sleep. I was pretty certainly depressed.

So would somebody please find the source for the following dream.

I was with a whole bunch of people and we were watching the Boston Pops Orchestra. I have never seen the Orchestra, but it's fairly clear that's who we were watching. We were moved from the stalls to the gallery (along with everyone else) for no apparent reason. For equally no reason, the gallery closely resembled the public gallery of Committee Room 1 at Australian Parliament House. I sat next to a girl we've seen before. We giggled together, started holding hands... you can see where this is going. In this instance to sex by everyone's definition (except Bill Clinton's). Which still doesn't necessarily imply the right thing. Probably reverse what you're thinking. And if you weren't around to know the details of the Clinton impeachment then you're too young to know what I'm saying anyway! Why, back when I was your age, Pluto was a planet! Of course, if you're smart enough to check Wikipedia and read about an interesting time in US political history then you can know. But you have to learn before you know. I'm like an incentivising teacher.

Anyway, there are a few interesting questions. The first is why I had a dream pertaining to sex at all. No consideration of it had taken place recently, no discussion, nothing on TV. I don't think I'd even emptied my spam folder. The second question is why her? I mean, don't get me wrong, she's someone with whom I would, if provided an opportunity, undertake these activities, but I lack any current obsession, even with her. Regardless, I never have these dreams about people with whom I'm obsessed. As anonymous said, they're always with the wrong person. Except they're not, because I would never say she were the wrong person. It's just very strange. And two such dreams without an intervening similarly-themed dream about another? Perhaps it's just that whenever I dream of her it always leads to this. Again an absurdity, but with a sample size of two it's very difficult to know. I'm really quite confused.

Two untriggered sex dreams about the same person, two weeks apart. This must be love, right?

untired

I don't want to sleep. I should. I know I should. But I just want chocolate and Daria. Unfortunately Daria remains the fucking annoying fictional stories as always. The girls and guys get together as planned, there's a classic teenage existence, there's music .. I dunno. I'm jealous of Daria.

I'm hungry. Chocolate would be nice. And myspace friends.

Ridiculously, cartoon violence there solely for comic effect is scaring me. Like, I'm scared of cartoon ghosts. I think it's safe to call this a down time.

handy hint #{Rand(1,200)}

If you pull a doona over your head and sit up, and hold your phone at arm's length it lights up the inside to look almost like archetypical light speed travel. You have to be keeping the doona taught with the phone, pushing it out with that arm. Be sure not to let any additional light in. I don't deserve it.

Works best if you're not wearing glasses and have water in your eyes.

wangsty

I've been trying for some months now to get the spelling of "angst" changed to "anxt", because any word with an x in it is cool. This afternoon, however, I've come across the word "wangsty", which wouldn't work quite so well as "wanxty" (the x is still cool, but you lose the "wang" unintentional pun; it's not as clear you're talking about wanking) so I may have to abandon my fight. We'll see.

In other news, I think it would probably be weird for me to get in touch with Leah, a girl who I came across when searing for people who like the movie Elizabethtown. I'm not sure people are ever ok with my being weird. I wish they were.

rather terror than tyrany

That's my new anti-anti-terrorism slogan. I think it'd go well on a t-shirt.

I wanted to speak a little bit this evening about an old cassette (I know, pre-CD) that was playing in my parents car earlier. It contained a whole bunch of old jazz and I really liked it. I can't remember what the point of this was, unfortunately.

The other thing was about a hitch-hiker I once picked up. A man and his wife, it seemed to me. I drove them a relatively short distance before he asked if I could drop them off and wait just three minutes. Well... she had nothing of it. I didn't mind at all - I wasn't actually urgently needed anywhere - but she had that matronly, old-womanly pride. The pride of the poor when they are accepting a favour from someone unimaginably richer than they. Acceptance, but no demands, no requirements. Just... I'm not sure. It was interesting, is all. What was perhaps more interesting was that he was quite happy to do the socially unacceptable. Which I didn't mind, but anyway. Curious.

Make it go away without a word / but promise me you'll stay and fix these things I've heard

That's not actually relevant, it just happens to be what I'm currently listening to. Also, I think the italicised lyric thing is pretty cool.

the trouble with sex dreams

Last night I had the unusual pleasure of a dream that involved sexual contact. That was the first of two dreams, in any case. This is generally speaking rather innocuous, but there are a few curious points.

The first of these - not in importance, by any measure - is the location. This particular dream took place in the exposed laundry corridor of our 25th floor apartment in Sri Lanka. Except that it was backwards. And by exposed, I mean... well, it was a bit like a balcony, but not extending over the side of the building. There was just a big hole in the wall and a railing. But as I say, this dream took place on the opposite side of the building in an area slightly smaller. But there was someone doing laundry or something nearby. That was a tad distracting.

Then there's the absolute unreality of the weather. I'm not sure if you've ever been in a wind tunnel 75m up but it tends to be pretty chilly. And it was grey skies outside, so it can't have been a nice warm day, it must've been either cold or (more likely in Sri Lanka) hot and humid. You hardly want to be naked in a hot and humid wind tunnel with somebody else standing around. And tile floors and all sorts of just not attractive things. Stupid dreamscape ruining my fantasy (not, and I should make this clear, that it was a fantasy).

But none of that is really problematic. Because none of it has any impact in the dream itself; it's not cold and uncomfortable. Physics never seems to intervene in these circumstances. There's a bit of an objection once one awakes, some sort of "I can't even pretend that was real" which is disappointing. You can't even wish for something that unreal.

Still not getting to the real problem. The real problem I face is that these dreams, when I (rarely) have them, tend to be about close friends. That's just not cool. Well, I personally don't mind, but I'm sure they wouldn't be happy. Or maybe they would; I never claimed to understand girls. In fact, they almost certainly would; there's that whole want to be wanted thing (more accurate but less aesthetic is describing it as the need to be desired). Still, it's not something you discuss. It's not something you'd ever say. It's not going to be awkward next time we talk. I'm not even going to be thinking of it. But there's this nagging little... well, when one thinks to it, there's a whole "wow, so in my dream..."

I want to describe a few more details about the dream itself but ... that would be inappropriate.

Last night I watched SBS until 1:20am so one might think that would explain it. In fact I was watching SOS and the one that stuck in my mind was documentary about an eleven-year-old gender dysphoric boy (Guido/Nina). I quite liked that actually, and I really felt for him. Like, empathetically. Not that I claim to be gender dysphoric... but I'm gender-curious (tongue firmly in cheek there). I quite feel for the GLBTIQ-set in general, in fact.

I should also note, by reference to my last post that this dream was not violent or anything of that nature. It was all in the name of love. Which still sounds like it could have been rape for love but no, it wasn't. It was consensual and couldn't have constituted rape in Tasmania even if there wasn't consent. There's a bit of detail for those who know the law. Damnit, in trying to express how it was all very happy and nice and stuff I keep subtly implying that it was nonconsensual or close. It wasn't.

I'm just going to stop.

vitriol

I am filled with a malice before unbeknownst to me. My only means of describing it is, once again, and unsurprisingly, to use the words of another. In this case I shall use the words of Camus to describe my schadenfreude. The Fall, the O'Brien translation at page 48:

From that moment onwards, without really intending it, I began, in fact, to mortify her in every way. I would give her up and take her back, force her to give herself at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places, treat her so brutally, in every respect, that eventually I attached myself to her as I imagine the jailer is bound to his prisoner. And this kept up till the day when, in the violent disorder of painful and constrained pleasure, she paid tribute aloud to what was enslaving her. That very day I began to move away from her. I have forgotten her since.

Ahh, but it wouldn't be unintentional for me. No, I intend and moreover I would relish perpetrating such torture. Not that I am or would or could. But for some reason this disgusting possibility is to me right now most appealing. I know not from whence or wherefore this malice arises but it's here, hidden just here beneath the surface. Disguised by flowery words, mostly not my own; concealed by my claim of nicety, my actions to support it. Am I a judge-penitent? No. I'm just a man, just like every man. My selfloathing is moderated by this thought; all men are this and worse. I don't just loathe myself, therefore, but all of mankind.

The masculine reference here is not limiting, but nor is it coincidental. All people are this, but men the worse, it would seem. Even if not, unbridled and indiscriminate hatred needn't be justified to you, Gladys. Fuck you.

I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. About how Casimir Pulaski Day by Sufjan Stevens makes me cry. About how I keep napkins in my car for that reason (and also because I have nowhere else to put them and because sometimes you need to be saved from a BBQ sauce emergency - that's what the moist towelettes are for).

I was going to explain that my car was out of petrol and my phone out of battery and how that's quite symbolic because I'm all out of giveafuck. And I wasn't going to make a joke, because I really am. I am bored and tired. With everything. I just... I just want to do something else with my life. Something fun. Something that doesn't involve arranging a conference a week before it happens, something that doesn't involve rewriting budgets. Perhaps something where I have a chance of winning (I'm referring here to Kingborough Council).

I also wish I wasn't inhibited by the people who read this. It's nobody's fault, but I have the classic problem: I want to say things and I want people to know that they've been said but I don't want anyone to talk to me about it. This isn't true of everything on this blog, but occasionally it's an issue. And so I just don't write those things.