wierdest search hit yet

from someone in Trinidad and Tobago:

"how do you say pizza, fries, burger, spagetti and meat balls in spanish with some pictures"


whaaaaaaa?

drag shows & meat trays

two relatively late slices from saggios, with mushrooms, broccoli, red pepper, water.

another disjointed mess. having trouble pinning down my dreams this month.

I go to Jen & Liz's gallery, expecting to hang out, but I find instead that they are throwing some giant high-fashion dinner, the gallery is cleared out & it's all banquet tables & blue light. They hustle me inside, glad I'm there, find me a space. I stay for a while but then get up to go. On my way out, I pass Christie Lantz (from midschool, who I'm certain I see around my real world neighborhood, she still walks the same), sitting at a table with people who are probably her family, including a daughter or niece on one side. Instead of sliding effortlessly past, I tap her on the shoulder (one sound thump) and say "Christie." She knows who I am and is very cordial. Apparently she is aware of me in the neighborhood, too, and is glad we have finally broken through and addressed each other. Then I realize that she has taken a large, flat slice of watermellon and cut it into a rudimentary paper-doll shape, dressed it up with bits from the table, and is relating to it like a baby doll. Holy moley, she's defective. I make a quicky get away & tell Jen to keep an eye on the girl with the watermelon doll.

Somehow I end up at a performance hall and there's this extraordinary show on by this very talented drag queen.

I think the dream gets looped at this point, sometime later I'm trying to convince people to go see the show, and it's at a new venue in my area. Not sure.

Somewhere in all of this, maybe back at the gallery, I keep seeing this meat tray, made of acrylic, carved with concentric rings & pits. Josh had seen such a thing on ebay but made of teak, and we couldn't figure what it really was, but I woke up knowinig it is a meat tray. (And it is.)

google hits on this blog

people do hit this blog, both from "next blog" random jumps within blogger, and also from google searches. and from all over the world, too, which is both interesting and also i guess unremarkable in this day and age. the more distant hits have come from turkey, the philipines, australia, brazil, guatemala. today, someone in basque country found the blog by googeling "hairy nun;" the most interesting thing about that being that it is NOT the first time i've gotten a hit off of a "hairy nun" search. and someone in new delhi also hit me today by searching for "models posing witout any dress on above the waist," which is pretty clumsy & prude for a porn search. i also have had hits from people searching for people that merely exist in my world, whether friend (like Virginia Yen) or foe (like Adrienne Salinger), and turn up in my dreams, but it wouldn't occur to me that people google other people, too. wierd.

the antipodes and the magical flower

chicken & rice, broccoli, a cup of pinon cocoa

Probably a series of dreams with similar subjects, but all mish mashed in my brain. First part a fragment of something larger.

Througout, there is the feeling that there is a civil war or some sort of insurrection ongoing...

Driving through NW NM with a guy who looks like Mr.. Honeymooner from the restaurant. We get off the highway and take a "shortcut," which is debateable. It's a dirt road, but as he points out, it is incredibly smooth and you can still drive very fast on it without rattling to death. At some point he needs to go to the bathroom and we pull over next to a giant ditch or muddy, empty resevoir. He is in his undies, backs himself up to the edge, drops his drawers and means to crap out over the edge. But he loses his balance and tumbles down the side and lands in the sludgey pool of mud at the bottom, submerging himself up to the neck. He drags himself back up the side, cursing a streak. We get back in the El Camino we're driving (there are 3 of us: me, him, and maybe a little brother?) and head on down the road. Of course, just around the turn is a giant rest stop/community center place. He was unaware. At this point, he has turned into my father, I think. We go into the building, down into a wet basement where there are lockerroom type facilities. [I've been here before, I think in a dream about a wedding] There is some danger, some intrigue I can't recall.

---

We can't find the prophetic plants like we used to. The one most dear to us, a small, silver Hens & Chicks, is dead. It lays in its planter, a long root like raffia trails from its base. Perhaps is has been pulled up? But when I say prophetic plants, I mean they they themselves are prophets; they speak with mouths, answer questions, give warnings. I find a planter (these planters are like the giant bowls Josh has in back) that has a very promising crop. Flat, paddle-like succulents with thin fingers all along the ridges tipped with bead-like ends. (A type of Euphorbia (probably) that I've seen, though these were short, rather than tall like the actual plant is, and the real plant may be more 3 dimensional than these flat guys.) It's planted in a circle, like Stonehenge. Maybe not ready to speak yet, but very close.

My group is studying the Antipodes, which in my dream is a particular place, loosely Central Asia. We're hanging about in the lockerroom areas again, ostensibly the building I was in before. Milling about in a dressing room, I go through a woman's purse and find a box of tampons. Bored shitless, I take one and try to cajole my fellows into a game of tampon tag. They are amused or bemused but little interested. I recieve regular flashes of a plywood jigsaw cut-out of a yellow plant, probably a Hens & Chicks, maybe a foot tall, sitting in one of the planters. Then back to the dressing room. I submerge the tampon in water, feel it inflate in my fingers. I squeeze it out a bit, hold it by the string, and smack somebody with it. Still little interest in my game. People are studying the Antipodes. There may be a test.

We are arranged in a circle of folding chairs on a porch. Customer Mark from the restaurant, in his blue and white Hawaiian shirt, is leading the class. He's asking what some defining features of the Antipodes are. I smack a butch woman in a green shirt next to me with the largely-dry tampon. She is unamused. Everyone raises their hand, including me. I review in my head that "Antipodes" means "anti-foot," and that the inhabitants live on horseback instead of on the ground. Sonya Erb from highschool is next to Mark and whispers an answer in his ear, which he then repeats to the class, something about skinning and eating reptiles. I think it's a good point, but mine would've been better. I tag Mark with the tampon, he tells me to shut up. I act like I'm having a good time, but secretly my feelings are really hurt.

more fascists, art, and bum assault

mac & cheese with salsa, broccoli, rolls, late night apple dapples

All through this dream, I keep on trying to figure out what shows Alan Tudyk was in.

Hanging out in a space somewhat like the old Mongomery Plaza theater entrance, downstairs. Inside a storefront type space are these hanging sculpted figures, like characters from Guernica, made of wire and metal. The figures are hung in three concentric circles, light from the center, they cast layered shadows on the walls. Fascists have defaced the sculptures, mainly with spraypaint, but since they are mostly bits and wire, it has only a subtle effect. But there are many of us here to rally to the artist's side. The artist, Pablo Neruda it seems, returns to repair his work, we all file inside to help and support.

Maresa and some other women, draped in shawls and such, begin a sensual dance in the center of the circles. I begin to chant, "You can't get none if you ain't got bun [singluar] hon." They think they really "have it." The central sculptural figures, all around us, are like sea creatures, like jellfish or portugese men o war. They're made of large cans that have been spirally shredded.

The space is now a bookstore, apparently, too. I'm sitting up on a counter, laying back against a wall, reading Voices Against Tyranny. Josh pops up from below the counter, mischevious. He's going to "tickle" me, aka goose my ass with his thumb. I'm absolutely furious, humiliated, and he won't leave me alone. I kick at him, meaning to knock him on his ass.

I woke up when my foot in real life hit Ixopo and sent her flying off the bed.

il vicino crazies & getting drafted into Man United

spent all day & early evening at the fair eating God knows what, came home & drank some PBR

Time to get the restaurant open, but it seems that whenever I look around, the girls are nowhere to be seen. No giant matter, there are virtually no people and I can handle it. Except that all that ARE coming in seem to be older women with fucking crazy orders that make no sense. [This is IV, but not, and it's not the pseudo Il Vicino I've consistently had my work dreams in, either. More of a coffee shop setting.] The next crazy lady comes in and orders a grilled cheese with some special directions, and then on her drink she wants iced tea, but with "cinnamon and gertrjiopf" in the center, but spaced out so she only tastes it "every 20 or 30 sips."

"I'm sorry, what did you want? Cinnamon and...?"

[Laughs]

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you the first time. What was it again you wanted?"

"Woooooooooooo!"

I lean in and hold an ear forward. "I'm sorry, what?"

She turns around and taps the top of a bottle of tobasco sauce on a thin snack counter mounted on the wall next to her.

I make a note of it on the pad, but explain that I'm not guaranteeing how her drink is going to come out. She seems dismissive and crazy still. And once again where the fuck is everybody? Claire suddenly appears and I grab onto her, tell her that the only people coming in today are crazy old women.

I'm running my butt off here and there trying to prepare this meal; there's nothing prepped and I'm having to go to the house across the street to get the cheese for the sandwich. Damn! The sandnwich I was toasting, upright in a slot toaster, for the last customer is burned. And more than that, I managed somehow to get a banana down in the slot and now it's all cooked through and sloppy. I drag the sandwich out, make another, put it in, come back, not only is it burned, too, but I forgot to take the banana out and now it's even worse. I try to get grip on the slimy thing-- a banana shaped like an ear of corn, but with banana peel, no husk-- and drag it out. I am semi-successful. But this is all taking WAY too long, not that I care when these crazy bitches get their food, frankly. While I'm still at the house across the street [has some resonance with the old house on Morningside, incidentally], in the kitchen, "the team" shows up. Apparently either Man United or the English national team. They're all grumpy and such, getting in my way, wrestling me and each other. I give in and throw up my hands. While some brute is playfully sitting on me, the team camptain (looking like Alan Tudyk) comes around-- there is a room full of them and several guys not on the team, too-- and he's pointing and individuals and saying "draft...draft...draft," and there's no way out. It's a literal press-ganging into this football team. From under my brute, I shout that,

"I'm a foreign national, mate."

Everyone just laughs. I know I'm stuck. How does he know I can play, anyhow? And can I even remotely play in this level of team? What the hell? How is this happening? I give up and start eating one of the ruined sandwiches I was making, all burned grilled cheese & mayo, the cheese in s thick, unmelted slab in the middle. I realize that in the future we should really use grated, even if it's messy. And around comes the captain again, pointing and announcing positions. The guy before me and myself both get Sweeper. I think about protesting that I'll make a MUCH better left defender, but I know that no one cares, I'm just the new American and I'll do what I'm told.

clean the house, store the weapons, find the keys

a very hearty stroganoff, water, some mid-evening apple dapples

I live in the back house of a 2 house property, largely a dirt lot but with some big, bright flowers here and there. I think my house might be a trailer, but maybe it's a little adobe cottage. I'm having a group of people over, but all the stuff in the house doesn't seem like mine, and it's like throwing a party in someone else's house, trying to figure out where things are, how to best do this or that. The place is kind of stuffed with chachki crap, and it's all sort of "fantasy super dragon dagger" style carved-- like the place is furnished from a flop house but decorated from the magic shop on Buffy.

People come, all RPG types and mostly young people, too, maybe 20 at the oldest. I think the party is kind of uncomfortable and boring, myself. We're planning something, though, some sort of operation. At some point, we decide we need to get this place cleaned spotless and get on the road. Everyone pitches in. I still feel like it's someone else's place, and I'm not quite sure what to pile or toss or keep or whatever. I'm cleaning an area on and around this big wooden table [like Chris & Dana's kitchen table]. I fiddle around & finally opt to just toss most stuff. Get a sponge, wipe everything down, get up under the edges, the works.

"Joyce Summers" was at the party and now comes back, claiming she's misplaced her keys. We start the hunt. Apparently she threw them at someone in self defense, but can't remember or explain who or why at the moment. Eliza Dushku [as Faith] is there [but also looking kind of like Summer Glau in the face]. I find a strange little knife [all fantasy dragon style] in a nylon clipping sheath, with a little pocket knife or maybe a folding nail file in the back, and ask Joyce if this is what she's looking for. No, it's not hers. But it's Eliza's. Now I remember seeing her with it. And now I find a little buckskin sheath, too, and I know it's hers.