i am not on drugs
i am: not getting any work done
listening to: the washer spinning
drinking: british blend tea
though you wouldn't know it from this dream i had last night. the dream started with me holding a very blond, very young baby. this baby was the picture of my son as he appeared when he was an infant, could have been one of his first snapshots come to life in my dream-arms. he was waving his hands and making cute little baby noises, and i said to someone who wasn't there, "i can't believe i gave him the same name; they're both named nicholas." in my dream-mind a picture of son as he is now, at almost-22, flashed through my mind. so the baby i was holding wasn't really son, it was a baby-son-doppleganger. (i suppose i should probably get used to these twisted mother-hen type dreams every time i talk to him on the phone just before he heads out to sea.)
but then the dream got even weirder. suddenly i was outside, walking among the ruins of some tumbled down stone structure. i was walking with a purpose toward something, heading over a rise in the ground; i wasn't alone. oh no, i was with desmond and sayid from "lost." i was talking with sayid, and desmond just sort of faded away, never to appear in the dream again. pity. anyway, i told sayid, "can you believe i named my new baby the same name as my son? how stupid is that? how confusing is that going to be?" he said, very gently and comfortingly, as sayid can be, (when he's not snapping the bad guys' necks with his ankles) "well, you missed him while you were on the island." i affirmed that i had and rambled on about how close son and i had been when he was young. we then reached the top of the rise and looked down on a frozen pond. people were ice skating in a geometric pattern; like medieval line dancing, or maybe the dancers in michael jackson's "thriller." we then headed off to the east, into the sun, to another ruined stone structure.
there we found hundreds, if not thousands, of american indians in full traditional array lined up in ranks. sayid said to me, "what are we doing here?" "it's the hopi dance," i replied. "anyone can join in." "okay," he said, very amenable (as sayid can be when he's not torturing one of the bad guys.) so we walked to the back of the ranks and took our place in a line. a tall blond woman turned and looked over her shoulder, "so, sayid, i thought you had to work today." sayid ducked his head sheepishly and replied in a very strong pakistani accent (which was odd because sayid isn't pakistani, but considering what followed, i think his accent may have something to do with me calling customer support one too many times,) "yes i was to work, but hewlett packard has given me the day off, so i am here to hopi dance." he then looked over his shoulder to a vast field of milkweed, goldenrod and other allergen-belching weeds, then turned back to her, "and i see that your allergies are much better today." she hmphed and snapped her head back around to face forward. and then a tremendous stomping and thumping started, and everyone did the hopi dance, waking me up.
don't ask me. i have no idea where these things come from.
today's reading: i'm still enjoying a re-read of christopher moore's fluke. i'll be making a b&n run later this week.
"You have to have a theory. Tell me, and let's apply the data to the theory. I'm willing to do the work, reconstruct the data, but you've got to trust me."
"No theory ever benefited by the application of data, Amy. Data kills theories. A theory has no better time than when it's lying there naked, pure, unsullied by facts. Let's just keep it that way for a while."
"So you don't really have a theory?"
"Clueless."
"You lying bag of fish heads."
"I can fire you, you know. Even if Clay was the one that hired you, I'm not totally superfluous to this operation yet. I'm kind of in charge. I can fire you. Then how will you live?"
"I'm not getting paid."
"See, right there. Perfectly good concept ruined by the application of fact."
listening to: the washer spinning
drinking: british blend tea
though you wouldn't know it from this dream i had last night. the dream started with me holding a very blond, very young baby. this baby was the picture of my son as he appeared when he was an infant, could have been one of his first snapshots come to life in my dream-arms. he was waving his hands and making cute little baby noises, and i said to someone who wasn't there, "i can't believe i gave him the same name; they're both named nicholas." in my dream-mind a picture of son as he is now, at almost-22, flashed through my mind. so the baby i was holding wasn't really son, it was a baby-son-doppleganger. (i suppose i should probably get used to these twisted mother-hen type dreams every time i talk to him on the phone just before he heads out to sea.)
but then the dream got even weirder. suddenly i was outside, walking among the ruins of some tumbled down stone structure. i was walking with a purpose toward something, heading over a rise in the ground; i wasn't alone. oh no, i was with desmond and sayid from "lost." i was talking with sayid, and desmond just sort of faded away, never to appear in the dream again. pity. anyway, i told sayid, "can you believe i named my new baby the same name as my son? how stupid is that? how confusing is that going to be?" he said, very gently and comfortingly, as sayid can be, (when he's not snapping the bad guys' necks with his ankles) "well, you missed him while you were on the island." i affirmed that i had and rambled on about how close son and i had been when he was young. we then reached the top of the rise and looked down on a frozen pond. people were ice skating in a geometric pattern; like medieval line dancing, or maybe the dancers in michael jackson's "thriller." we then headed off to the east, into the sun, to another ruined stone structure.
there we found hundreds, if not thousands, of american indians in full traditional array lined up in ranks. sayid said to me, "what are we doing here?" "it's the hopi dance," i replied. "anyone can join in." "okay," he said, very amenable (as sayid can be when he's not torturing one of the bad guys.) so we walked to the back of the ranks and took our place in a line. a tall blond woman turned and looked over her shoulder, "so, sayid, i thought you had to work today." sayid ducked his head sheepishly and replied in a very strong pakistani accent (which was odd because sayid isn't pakistani, but considering what followed, i think his accent may have something to do with me calling customer support one too many times,) "yes i was to work, but hewlett packard has given me the day off, so i am here to hopi dance." he then looked over his shoulder to a vast field of milkweed, goldenrod and other allergen-belching weeds, then turned back to her, "and i see that your allergies are much better today." she hmphed and snapped her head back around to face forward. and then a tremendous stomping and thumping started, and everyone did the hopi dance, waking me up.
don't ask me. i have no idea where these things come from.
today's reading: i'm still enjoying a re-read of christopher moore's fluke. i'll be making a b&n run later this week.
"You have to have a theory. Tell me, and let's apply the data to the theory. I'm willing to do the work, reconstruct the data, but you've got to trust me."
"No theory ever benefited by the application of data, Amy. Data kills theories. A theory has no better time than when it's lying there naked, pure, unsullied by facts. Let's just keep it that way for a while."
"So you don't really have a theory?"
"Clueless."
"You lying bag of fish heads."
"I can fire you, you know. Even if Clay was the one that hired you, I'm not totally superfluous to this operation yet. I'm kind of in charge. I can fire you. Then how will you live?"
"I'm not getting paid."
"See, right there. Perfectly good concept ruined by the application of fact."