October 10th, 2004


(no subject)

Among the things I dreamed last night:

  • That I was trying to tell a painter, who thought he was ugly, that in fact he reminded me of Griffin Dunne. But I couldn't remember Dunne's name, so after some struggling, I said, "Oh! He was that guy in ________." And then couldn't remember the title After Hours. So I began describing the movie at great length. The painter, who was also a teacher, was painting the portrait of a girl, the daughter of a friend of mine, who'd had a makeover. She didn't show up for a sitting, so the artist was working instead on his nth copy of a famous modern painting. Out the window behind him was Johnson Point, or Observatory, or something--a mountain on the Seattle shoreline that resembled Pinocchio's nose, impossibly tall and thin, and dense with picturesque little villages where, I was told, the inhabitants were extremely picky and strict about regulating the experience of tourists. I couldn't believe I'd never seen it before. Ignore the Freudian prankishness of my subconscious, please.

  • That I was Spike, and was shopping and trying on clothes in a men's boutique. I was drawn to red velvet pants with a raised pattern that resembled wallpaper, but realized wisely that other people might think these tacky.

  • That I was given horrible service in a restaurant--they spilled sauce on me, changed my table, gave me a new waitress, kept me waiting for my entree for an hour, and then, to top it off, I suddenly realized that my table had been cleared and a woman had been seated at it, right in front of my own chair. Angrily I stormed off, stopping as many waitresses as possible to find mine, then giving up and heading for the register where I intended to complain. But they had a special section set up for complainers. Four casual pollsters sat on couches with clipboards and questionnaires while people stood in a line to register the details of their dining experiences. I wanted to complain about this. Eventually I found the manager, who began negotiations with me about the bill. Annoying man. Annoying experience. I'll never eat there again.

  • That I was breaking up with a heavy, slothful, older man who was sleeping on the floor, on my car keys. I had to prod him to get up while his friends watched. When I left I took a gift he'd given me, a long stuffed purple velvet bird or octopus. A birdopus. Then I got to the door of the building and turned back to leave it with him, deciding that I'd create a new, smaller one for myself instead.
  • elijah

    first lines meme. and lines. and lines.

    First lines meme. Except I'm doing first paragraphs. Because they say more. These are in reverse fandom order, but not reverse chronological on the story level: Buffy, Stargate, Sentinel, and X-Files. It's interesting to me to see how terse the first bits of most of the Stargate stories are compared to the others, particularly since (a) it was my shortest-lived fandom, and (b) the stories are often from Jack's POV, and he's often a man of few words. But I didn't notice this at the time. The diction changes, too, from fandom to fandom. I'm not overly fond of the old XF stuff. I notice that my writing has relaxed since then, but other than that it's hard for me to tell which changes are due to time and craft, and which are related to the flavor of a particular fandom.


    I've starred my own favorite first lines, which aren't necessarily my favorite stories. All of this, by the way, because it kills time on a Sunday night. If you see odd fontiness, it's because I did this in the rich-text mode, to preserve italics.


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