radfrac_archive_full: (john simm)
I read at the local open mic Friday, and then that night I dreamed an urban portal fantasy -- a gate between two worlds that weren't very different from one another, except that the new world had fewer people. Things took an uncomfortable turn when, as I sat in his lap, my friend's husband wanted to demonstrate to me how someone could be strangled, so I elected to return across the portal.

At intervals I become addicted to games on my iPod -- chasing the dopamine hit. Eventually I remove them, until another game captures me. I can proof myself against the previous game, but somehow I can never prevent the new hook. It's like falling in love without the meaningful connection (or fantasy thereof).

The game I've been hooked on for the last -- year or so? -- really hooked on, in that way where you quit and go back, quit and go back -- is the app version of the tabletop game Agricola. I've actually pretty much cracked how to beat the AI every time, which is unprecedented for me and any game. It works for me because it's turn-based, founded on hoarding, and has incredibly low stakes (you're a subsistence farmer and if you get a cow you are SO HAPPY.)

I have a lot of jouissance locked in this game, and I need to release it so that I can have it back in my life. I know I should come up with writing exercises that have elements of the strategy, iteration, and structure of the game -- as someone said in a podcast today, "What is a sonnet but a game you're trying to win?"

I am pants at sonnets, though, so I... am writing haiku. About the game. To keep from playing the game.

Do not play your phone
app. Write a haiku instead.
One for every* round.

Golden grain: so hard
to turn into food, yet with
oven: abundance.

Vegetables, you
are less nutritious, except
with expansion packs.

Market woman, your
generosity is huge
but late in the game.


*Or I guess that should be "ev'ry." I have a BC Interior accent, which tends to drop out whole syllables as a waste of breath. We definitely say "pome" rather than "po-ehm." I've let "vegetables" scan with four syllables, but I always say "vejt'bls."
radfrac_archive_full: (oscura)
[livejournal.com profile] seaopaque was in my dream last night. She living in a room I used to live in, but she'd repainted it, and we (some nebulous we) (but we weren't a nebula, just people) were bringing her things--I think she felt ill? Or wanted to take a bath? Something like that.

Someone taking a dream course told me that the majority of our dreams are bad dreams, nightmares, practise for threat situations. I don't know. That doesn't fit with how I experience dreaming. I look forward to it. Sometimes stressful things happen, but usually the affect is somewhat flattened, and they happen in the context of a long, meandering narrative, picaresque travelogue, urban spelunk, flying lesson, that is sometimes ecstatic to experience and usually interesting to remember. Well, interesting for me, charged with that weird significance that inheres in dreams.

My mind, it's true, is inherently gothic, in that it spends a lot of time worrying about the layout of houses.

radfrac_archive_full: (And you wonder...)
Dream: in which Frac's subconscious teaches him lessons of community. )

Watched Exotica twice yesterday for the Gothic Film and Literature course. I've never seen a movie that so satisfyingly replies to analysis. It can't be emptied. Well, it can, but it won't be by me.

Seeing and hearing, closed captions, attention )

Also a joy: I went back to Cafe Philosophy on Wednesday. )

Wednesday was also the night [livejournal.com profile] inlandsea, [livejournal.com profile] stitchinmyside and I climbed the stairs to J's apartment to see her night-blooming cereus. She left a voicemail at 9:30 -- "Come pay court to the Queen of the Night," -- we got the message at ten -- we hurried over to her attic apartment, all panels and angles and funny corners, wonderful -- and saw the cereus, green body coiled over the radiator in the kitchen alcove, broad leaves splayed, blooms like --

what could it be like?

Like the moon was a moth the size of both your hands together, and she and her mate had come to rest in the dark shining window. Like you'd brought your hands together underwater and they fused into one soft creature with an anemone heart, and then, lit from within, suddenly turned white-hot as ropes of glass pulled from a kiln.

[livejournal.com profile] inlandsea noticed that its smell was lilylike, and it was, but not as sweet, with a salty, almost pungent note at the finish. And the buds! Like purses of blind snakes.

Now it is Friday. This is what I have planned: Rest. Study. Haircut. (Please. Please. Haircut.) Class. Lindabeet's Herbal Garden Party. Maybe the Urbanite event at the Art Gallery, if I feel that lively. (Atomic Vaudeville is performing, I think, and you get to go through the Warhol exhibit and see one of his films. 8pm, if you're interested. $12.)


dream log

Jun. 16th, 2008 11:10 am
radfrac_archive_full: (And you wonder...)
Dreamed I was the lead in a play about the life of Henry James. After the first act, I joined my mum in the audience until, during the big act-two opening number involving a wildly anachronistic group charleston, it was pointed out to me that I'd probably be needed for the second act as well.

I and the bloke playing the police officer (!) went backstage where I pulled together a costume. I dusted greying powder on my rock-star flip haircut (not appearing in real life) and got the cop to help me with my suspenders. Some amusing vaudeville ensued when he captured my underwear in them as well.

The dream ended before I got onstage. I was going to be escorted on by police officers. Don't know what bit of James' life that might correspond to as I am in fact only on page 35 of volume 1 of Novick's biography. The suspenders come either from last night's viewing of an early David Tennant appearance in a BBC series about a mental hospital, or the execrable P.S. I Love You, witnessed earlier in the week.



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