"you're the duchamp to her dadaism"
Quick, quick - I need a bicycle wheel.
And a stool...
No, really. Last night, I dreamt. In sepia. It was strange, because the dream was fully modern, but it was all tinged in brown, far as I can recall. It is the second time in a week that I've dreamt of being-late-to/missing a flight. It wasn't like the other day, in which I only had a bit of time left - in this dream, my flight left at 2, and when I looked at my watch, it was in fact 2. The beginning of the dream was sexual, and that was odd (to say the least - fairly uncommon stuff, dreamwise) especially because it involved someone I've met only twice. But that lasted for about a second, at any rate, because I realized that I was effectively missing my flight, and I still left in panic to try to make it - the goodbye was so strange - I think I initially didn't get a kiss, and then the dream looped, and I did, but the fact that I didn't get it at the beginning was more than enough, it effectively made the fact that there was no true affection from the other party only clearer, and while I wasn't altogether emotionally attached either, it was just pretty brutal nonetheless. {I think it may have all been related to the recent interviews on casual sex? Except, really, there was no sex in the dream, I'm assured.} And then I ran out with my bags, only it was impossible to run with them, and I tried to run down the street, only I realized that I was running in vain and that my plane was long gone - and so I turned to go back to the apartment from whence I had emerged (even though I don't think it was "my" apartment), only I couldn't find it, and when I got into the building in which I thought it was, in a fairly run-down area, it turned out it wasn't, and I was in some sort of hotel with a series of train platforms. But the trains weren't going to the airport (even though it would have been pointless to go there) and they were actually headed to Berlin {this, I'm positive, is influence from the Paris research from yesterday - the Madrid train doesn't go to the Gare du Nord; Gare du Nord trains go to Berlin, though - I wanted to come in at Gare du Nord, because its fucking beautiful, but my train would likely go to the Gare du Montparnasse, where trains fly out through the windows.} And I woke up around that point. I like that the streets looked like the ones in George Grosz paintings - jagged and crooked and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari-esque.
The rest of the day was strange - I've been saying the most off things all day, and I'm not sure why...I'm well slept, but I'm behaving as if I'm exhausted (mentally?). Lauren and I talked about stuff about which I really had no place sharing opinions, as it was subject matter about which I had no idea, and I'm pretty sure I probably said some barbarities throughout that conversation; later on, I'm quite confident that there were moments in which I randomly used the farily-ridiculous joke phrases that Alexis and I were using last night, only for some reason they were only directed at Justin's quite-nice friend Carrie (i.e. "it's been positively delightful meeting you" or something similarly 1950's-debutante sounding...after each one, I'd wince in my mind.) Shrug. I did get free coffee with Lauren, which, combined with the ridiculous amount of free (& illegal! gasp!) beers last night and the random gifts of shots before that makes for nearly five days of having had the same 8 single dollar bills in my pockets. Which I finally got rid of. Except for three of them.
And then there was Brokeback Mountain, which was really good, especially considering how absolutely horrible it could have been. On so many levels, it could have just been wretched, but it really wasn't, and on top of that, going to see it on the beach means that the audience makes sure it goes from being a heavy drama to it being a catty romantic comedy (sort-of). The movie in general was really good, again, even though it was kind of dulled, in the sense that The New York Times has been in effect giving the entire plot away, gradually, over the past year. Save for the ending, I knew everything that was going to happen, though it didn't make it any less good or shocking (the bloody parts.) I really hope that Heath Ledger doesn't make the whole grumbling thing a long-standing habit. He seems to be doing it in Casanova; if he does it in whatever film he does after that one, it will really devalue his performance in this particular film. I especially loved that Anne Hathaway girl, though her sudden breasts popping out were a total surprise; I'm quite convinced that she is going to do something fairly important eventually. And, yes. There are certain things I didn't like about the movie, but it wasn't because anyone had done anything wrong - quite on the contrary, they did things right: they conveyed the desolate loneliness of the Midwest and the coarseness of the homelives so well that I was somewhat horrified of it throughout the film. I thought it interesting that The New York Times noted that the year after Annie Proulx published the story, Matthew Sheppard was beaten, tied up to a fence, and left to die in Wyoming; no matter how mainstream and modern the world has become, the sort of brutal intolerance and barbarism shown in the film is not yet a thing of the past. And that's pretty fucking awful - I'll probably never see it, as the Midwest has nothing for me, but it’s depressing to think that there are people who experience that sort of environment throughout the entirety of their lives. And in that sense, I'm not just talking about the gay factor - the movie really does emphasize the misogynistic streak in the men of that time and place; you sympathize with the male protagonists, but what they undeniably do to their respective wives is equally as bad as what they themselves go through. I want to reread the short story and check on the death bit.
I love that the story first appeared in The New Yorker.
More positively, though, next week is going to be awesome, and not due to the rapidly approaching holiday kitsch.