Dream #s 22, 23

In the first, my elementary-school best friend was renting (although not actually paying rent) the house I/my parents own and I was looking around it trying to decide whether or not I would live there, too. We were talking about simple things, like where to put my couch and whether the horrifying monsters that lived in the house would eat my cat or not...

The second ended with me utterly heartbroken, sobbing on the floor because I had just watched the love of my life die in front of me while M. tried to comfort me by telling me he was just the animatronic version of himself. What I want to know then is, was I mourning the actor of the character? Which was animatronic? 

Either way, I'm not in the best mood this morning.

Funky Miracle, or, Funk & Miracle

I'm in a bit of a funk today. Nothing serious; it's just one of those days where I tire of the fact that all of my boyfriends are fictional. I spent last night with the pie-maker and while he's the quintessential example of my "type," he's still not real. Pesky details, I know. 

My funk, however, is besides the point. I was musing yesterday on something that regularly (if somewhat rarely) occupies my thoughts. *insert drum roll for dramatic effect*

The World.

No, seriously. Think about it. We're flying about the universe on what was once a teeny tiny speck of rock and is now (relatively speaking) a gigantic speck of rock, and on that rock somehow, defying all odds, there came to be things like chocolate and puppies and pie-makers. How f'ing fantastic is that? More to the point, how BIZZARE is that? I mean, if that doesn't qualify as a miracle, I don't know what does. Ok, yes, there are horrible things out there - more than I like to count. For every disease, every conflict, every piece of corruption, there are comfy sofas and madmen with a box and coffee and...

So, yes. Every so often I sit and think about how strange and wonderful and beautiful it is that all of these fantastic, weird things came from a tiny speck of rock. And, even when I'm in a funk, it makes me smile.

III, also known as Dream #21

It's been a very, very long time since I've had a dream like that - so vivid, and filled with such longing. It was so small, so simple. Half-dozing on the couch with my head on G.'s leg while he read a book. Nothing more, and nothing less in the world existed. It was somehow illicit and wonderful and I woke with such a feeling of want I still haven't been able to shake it. It has left me feeling sad and much more lonely than usual.

It is after dreams like this that I feel so very in touch with R.E.M. and his story. Dreams like this make me the perfect, the only person to write that book. It is the reason I am putting Sam on the back-burner for the moment - this is now the story I have to tell. Will I be grateful, in the end, for the emotional pain these dreams often put me through? If it leads where I hope it will? Can longing like that be forgiven? Would I choose a different end than my professor? 

Probably not.

Dream #s 19, 20

I should have written these, especially the first one, down as soon as I woke up. Saturday night's was one of those that stayed with me all day, filling me with the desire to do nothing more than lounge in bed all day and revel in the strong emotions that seem to come with dreams such as that one...

Dream #19

His name was Ethan this time - only the second time, I think, that he's had a name (and that with the first one being Lavender.) It's made doubly weird by the fact that Ethan's my current top choice for my future son, should he ever make an appearance. There was a lot of never-give-up-because-true-love-is-eternal stuff, but the only thing I really remember is this bit at the (I think) end where I was standing at the bottom of what looked like a wide sort of well and he was about to jump in from the top. I had to throw up this...soap bubble thing so that it was parallel to the floor of the well and twirl my arm around and around to expand the thing so that when he jumped in, he would jump through it and, hopefully, appear on the other side. Or die. So, he jumps through, but doesn't come out the other end and at the instant I see his feet not emerge I leap from the edge with my arms thrown out, screaming his name, and close around...him. And as we're lying there, panting with exhaustion (panting is such an inelegant word, don't you think?) he says, "See? I told you there was a way." As in, you just had to have faith and leap, even when all evidence pointed to him being dead in that instant. 

Dream #20

Daryl Motherf----ng Dixon time! Bring out the weaponry! Getting lessons from The Man on how to be an effective zombie-killing machine. Super long knife through mouth into brain. Chop Chop. Lots of DMFD. Twas a good dream. Gross, but good.

Howdy, Stranger

Seven plus months in at the new job, and it feels like home. A home filled with book-loving, liberal Whedonites. Really, you can't beat that. And today, due to Sandy, a home in which there's not much to do. So, I've returned. I have a back-log of lost words to post in the hopefully near future, but in the meantime, I wanted to post a small update. I feel more "me" here than I can recall feeling anywhere else, and it's been...therapeutic, I guess I'd say. It's been that, more than any of the past (recent or far) traumas, that's gotten the not-diet on the right track, a fact I find most interesting.

I'm still looking at too-expensive apartments in Ithaca, and occasionally giving myself a mental whack upside the head for wanting to increase my expenses exponentially just because it will *gasp* make me happy. I mean, really. The nerve. Who does such a thing? Still, given my plans for less than two years from now, it doesn't seem necessarily prudent. I'm trying to focus on getting the house into decent enough shape that I can rent or sell it, depending on what I'm permitted. It's a bit overwhelming, and I'm honestly a bit puzzled as to what the big hooplah is over home ownership. It's kind of a (major) pain in the ass, especially when you're gone twelve hours a day, five days a week and need work done on it. One thing at a time becomes...no thing at a time. Oh, and please don't look at my lawn, it's embarrassing. Thanks evah so much. Yep, I just mis-spelled on purpose. It's that kind of day. 

Let's see, what else...I'm back to research mode on the book, now that the second draft is mostly done. I think there's a lot of work ahead to bring it from pretty decent to really good, so I'm hunkering down for the long haul and reading everything I can get my hands on. I consider it a sign of progress or maturation or something that I'm finally willing to actually read books on writing, actually.

And now some work has freed up, so I shall get back to it. I'll try to post more frequently now that I feel a bit more settled in and accustomed to getting up at 5:30am as opposed to going to sleep then. I still maintain it's not natural, though. 

Stay shiny, my friends.

Giddy-up

I love my job. I really do. It's perfect - I get to play with books all day. Some of them are really cool books, too. Big books, small books, cool new books, really cool really old books...it's awesome. I'm still trying to weigh seven days of my life commuting a year vs. $6,000 or so more rent per year, but I'm not worrying about it. I'm just looking, and when the right place comes along, I'll be ready.

Is this really all it takes? A good job, a great therapist and letting go? Who knew?

Listening to: The Eels

Reading: The Selected Letters of William Faulkner (sorry, Billy, but they're interesting) 

WOOOOO!!!

I got the job! Cornell University Olin Library! A library! With a coffee shop in it!!! Livin' da dream, biyatches!

Another Step Backwards

I hate deleting pages - really, really hate it. It's more than just the loss of progress. It's the admission that what I wrote sucks. Because of my supreme reluctance to get rid of what's obviously not working, I have a tendency to pause. And then pause some more. I wind up spending weeks (or sometimes months) staring at the offending paragraph or chapter or sometimes even word, trying to think of a way in which these offending letters can be rearranged in a more pleasing manner. Then, finally, I click the button. I feel guilty. I shuffle the words off to my discarded ideas folder and apologize for removing them from their home. I'm so sorry, Garden State School of Arts & Sciences - I'm going public school after all. Better luck next time. 

Finally

It's been weeks since I've worked on the book. I think I needed distance from it. I needed to be able to look at the first fifty or so pages with fresh eyes before I could move on to the rest of the third draft. I don't have much hope of being able to finish the book by the end of the year, but I'm still going to try. At any rate, things seem to be going well today and as I have five hours and thirty-seven minutes left before I can leave and avoid having to pay for parking, there's plenty of time to get work done. 

Listening to: Pandora's Indie Singer/Songwriter station

Re-reading: Harry Potter series (yeah, I know...)

Shiny

I had an interview today for a job at one of Cornell University's thousand or so libraries. It's a long shot - they're interviewing an official crapload of people, so I'm not expecting anything. It's pretty much my ideal job, long commute aside. Books, a coffee shop IN the library...can't beat that. 

There was a funny moment during the interview though, when we were talking about my language skills. One of the interviewers asked me why I'd started studying Chinese and I stammered for a second before admitting it was for a kind of dorky reason and then said the one, magic word: Firefly. Lucky for me, two of the interviewers were fellow Browncoats, and we all had a chuckle. Moments like those definitely put a smile on my face. I still don't really have a feel for how it went, but I'm slightly hopeful despite the large number of applicants. 

Anyhoo...I'm off. 

I Swear I'm Not Paranoid, Part One

I've watched too many movies and television shows, I know. At some point a few weeks or months ago, a frightening thought occurred to me: what if instead of a nuclear attack, the next great (possibly apocalyptic) event is instead an EMP weapon? Think of what would happen to our country without electricity. Millions would die. We live in a world in which we are becoming increasingly dependent upon technology for just about everything. We don't read map - we have GPS. We don't write letters - we have cell phones, email, texts and just about every method you could think of to make communication less and less personal. I hope I'm not the only one that finds it frightening. 

Even before this thought occurred to me, I've always been a person who appreciated doing things by hand. I love hand-made furniture. I own a 60 year-old camera. I used to milk goats. I like the thought that if I had to, I could survive in a technology-less world. I still have my phone/laptop/tv, but I'm not particularly attached to them. I like reading actual books. With paper. You remember those, right? I like to write letters - I just don't have anybody to whom I can write them. I'd grow my own vegetables if plants didn't wither if I even came near them. 

I can't get out of my head the video that made the rounds recently of a one year-old girl who kept trying to turn the pages of a magazine like an ipad and didn't seem to get why it wasn't working. That's about the saddest commentary on our society that I can imagine, and it doesn't seem safe to not be teaching our children how to survive in a tech-free world. What's so wrong with a card catalogue? With riding a bike? With reading a map? With actual face-to-face conversations? 

And don't worry, the irony of typing this on my laptop to be posted online is not lost on me...

Procrastination Party

It's a nice day, and while I managed to drag myself up to Ithaca, I'm sitting here sifting through that probably mostly fake auto-correct site and laughing so hard I'm annoying the woman with the ugly shoes sitting next to me. (Yeah, see, that's what you get for shooting me dirty looks, you sartorially challenged meany.)

I thought before about changing the direction of this blog to one that will focus more on the process of writing a novel, but since that will apparently take five years...Plus, I like writing down my weird dreams and my occasionally snarky musings. 

If anybody had told me that it would take this long to write a book, though, I might have been deterred. Well, probably not, but I would have thought twice about it. While drinking coffee. And playing Sims. Yeah, that could be a reason. I just don't know how to plow through a section when I know it needs a LOT of work, or skip through a section for a time when I can't figure out how to begin. So, it's taken me a scary amount of time, but I'm finally at 200 pages. Booyah. I'm still telling myself I'm 2/3 of the way there since my original goal was to write 300 pages, but the reality is the book will probably be closer to 400. Anyhoo...those auto-corrects won't read themselves. 

Lightning (Bug) - In which the first paragraph is inexplicably centered...

As I am nearing the 200 page mark in my book, I find myself both befuddled that I have made it this far and nervously excited about the next step. It is rare that I show anybody my work before it is finished (probably why I never show my work - it's never finished,) and moving from that to foisting my work off on anybody I can get to read it and offer (kindly phrased) constructive criticism is somewhat (i.e., extremely) nerve-wracking.

That wasn't why I came back here today, though. It's been months, and a lot has changed - although on the surface it seems like things are pretty much the same. I remain in my house, and while I am growing to like the home itself, I am steadfast on my position regarding its location. However, the realization that renting the house as opposed to my original desire to sell it would bring in more income over the long haul and thus free me from the guilt of moving as soon as humanly possible has engendered a certain amount of contentment regarding my situation. 

So, I am writing more, which makes me feel more like my creative self as well as reading and listening to classical music, which makes me feel more like my intellectual self. I continue to study Spanish and Chinese, although not as often as I'd like. I think the guilt resulting from my feelings regarding the house it put me into a funk for a few months, from which I've very gratefully emerged. I have narrowed down my geographical relocation to either D.C. or San Francisco and areas of California north of it (as opposed to towards the LA region, which I have no desire to even visit, really.) The house will be fixed in the spring, and hopefully I can continue my work with K. over the phone if I do relocate to the west coast. 

So why am I here? Maybe in part I miss sending my thoughts out into the world now that I am proudly Facebook free. I've also been reading articles about employers moving from traditional resumes to looking at potential employees web/social media presence, so I'm looking into moving the blog to the domain name I purchased years ago and trying to transform it into a "real" writing-oriented website. I'm cataloging my progress and holding onto it as a talisman against Elmiraitis. And now, back to work. At least a hundred pages to go. May the force be with you. 

"The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter - it's the diff. between the lightning bug and the lightning." - Mark Twain

Listening to: Gotye, "Somebody That I Used to Know"

Reading: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

The Intellectual Reclamation Project, Entry 1

Read: Anton Chekhov, Ward No. 6

Ok, technically it's a "story," but it's a start.

Listening to: Rimsky-Korsakov, Scheherazade Suite

Cuteness

Exactly

"Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sounds - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then do not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not...for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.That is the only way one can judge it."

- Ranier Maria Rilke

* Thanks to my favorite aunt for passing along this piece of truth.

Lost Words #6

All in the Details

I keep obsessing over Sam's eyes. You see, he cuts his hair, and you can see his eyes more. And Ryan of course has to comment on it. He can't leave anything alone, especially not an opportunity to gently rib his best friend. You know apple jolly ranchers? That was my first idea - too bright. Yoda green? Kind of sickly looking, as far as eyes would be concerned. Starbucks green? They do deserve a mention after all of the free drinks they've given me. Trees, grass...not specific enough. I need something green. Just one perfect eye color shade of green. Something Crayola? I still like the jolly ranchers, but those apple ones are practically florescent.

See what I mean? It's maddening. So, any readers out there, I'm up for suggestions. Winner gets a prize. A green one.

Lost Words #5

It's a meta4, fool.

Dream #18

I was with Ted and Marshall standing in the middle of the street; the street was quite hilly, and the houses very posh Victorian houses. We were all very, very drunk and psyched because it was the night when the rich people put out super cool stuff onto the sidewalk. The two of them were about twenty feet up the hill, talking. I looked up into a third floor window of one of the houses and saw a man who looked kind of like a thin Hurley from Lost looking down at me. I did one of those point two fingers at my eyes then his "I've got my eyes on you" kind of things. Then, suddenly, I'm rolling down the hill and I'm too drunk to stop myself. I'm kind of laughing and I yell up to them "I'm rolling! I'm rolling!" and they run after me, yelling "She's rolling! She's rolling!" to catch me before I roll into traffic.