see you in my dreams
Bit dazed, me. Not only has it been stinking hot (although cooler today) but I've been out to dinner for four evenings in a row (curry with the book club, Portuguese with English dept. colleagues, jo&stv's killer Thai, and lamb with wolverine_nun, all with wine) and am consequently somewhat bloated, headachy and short on sleep. Curse this life of Riley. On the upside, the resulting dreams are rather interesting even for me.
Apparently my subconscious has abandoned Zimbabwe in favour of genre. The night before last, in a junky schlock horror narrative, nasty aliens took the outer skins of humans and wore them as a disguise in order to pursue me through a department store. Fortunately I was rescued in the nick of time by flying, glowing teenage bimbette superheroes. (Moral: don't spend Christmas reading the incredibly junky novelisation of V).
Last night went all classic science fiction, locating me on a giant, bulbous spaceship with a crew of about 10, headed for a strange alien gate artifact through which we were madly and blindly going to jump on account of how we couldn't go home (earth having succumbed to eco-disaster with total loss of life). I remember worrying about (a) food, (b) perpetuating the species and (c) whether we'd run out of bath water. This seems to nicely encapsulate most of my main preoccupations and neuroses, so go subconscious.
Last night Part 2 entailed an interestingly 19th-century village setting for a convoluted all-star plot about demons possessing people, resulting in freaky glowing red eyes. Features included a post-possessed Orlando Bloom shambling around the village green with his shirt open in the character of the Village Idiot (sorry, first_fallen), and Helena Bonham Carter suiciding gracefully from the top of the bell-tower. Also Johnny Depp as the hero, overcoming demons in a suitably cerebral fashion. In fact, now I think about it, some seriously quality dream material there. It's not every night one gets to snog Johnny Depp, even with glowing red eyes.
My nice editor is all blasé about receiving my book at the end of the month rather than the beginning, so I'm feeling slightly less guilty about the updates. Paradoxically, this is inclining me more towards actually doing some work, although it's hard to think how it could incline me any less. Sigh. Shall now go and wrestle with Walter Ong. Will also attempt to find the essential Walter Benjamin photocopy my evil book-infested study appears to have eaten. Wish me luck.
Apparently my subconscious has abandoned Zimbabwe in favour of genre. The night before last, in a junky schlock horror narrative, nasty aliens took the outer skins of humans and wore them as a disguise in order to pursue me through a department store. Fortunately I was rescued in the nick of time by flying, glowing teenage bimbette superheroes. (Moral: don't spend Christmas reading the incredibly junky novelisation of V).
Last night went all classic science fiction, locating me on a giant, bulbous spaceship with a crew of about 10, headed for a strange alien gate artifact through which we were madly and blindly going to jump on account of how we couldn't go home (earth having succumbed to eco-disaster with total loss of life). I remember worrying about (a) food, (b) perpetuating the species and (c) whether we'd run out of bath water. This seems to nicely encapsulate most of my main preoccupations and neuroses, so go subconscious.
Last night Part 2 entailed an interestingly 19th-century village setting for a convoluted all-star plot about demons possessing people, resulting in freaky glowing red eyes. Features included a post-possessed Orlando Bloom shambling around the village green with his shirt open in the character of the Village Idiot (sorry, first_fallen), and Helena Bonham Carter suiciding gracefully from the top of the bell-tower. Also Johnny Depp as the hero, overcoming demons in a suitably cerebral fashion. In fact, now I think about it, some seriously quality dream material there. It's not every night one gets to snog Johnny Depp, even with glowing red eyes.
My nice editor is all blasé about receiving my book at the end of the month rather than the beginning, so I'm feeling slightly less guilty about the updates. Paradoxically, this is inclining me more towards actually doing some work, although it's hard to think how it could incline me any less. Sigh. Shall now go and wrestle with Walter Ong. Will also attempt to find the essential Walter Benjamin photocopy my evil book-infested study appears to have eaten. Wish me luck.