(no subject)
A few nights ago, I dreamed that I died suddenly. I was going to the movies with Buzzy and Steph, and after we'd sat down I noticed a woman in a many-layered outfit and sunglasses, carring several paper bags full of groceries. I thought to myself, "That woman looks almost like she's wearing a disguise. Maybe there's a bomb in one of those grocery bags." Then I thought, "Don't be so paranoid. Anyway, what would you do about it?" A few moments later, the woman took a bouquet of flowers from one of the bags, tossed it into the room and fled. The bouquet silently released some sort of noxious gases that instantly killed us all. My consciousness went on, and mostly I remember thinking how stupid a way to die it was, especially since I could theoretically have prevented it, and that I was not ready to die.
The night before last I had a better dream, though. I was on some sort of historical tour of Portland with a bunch of other adults. We wound up at the city library for a final lecture, and then they announced they were going to choose two lucky audience members to spend a day with famous Portland authors. I was one of the ones chosen, and I wondered who the authors would be. Chuck Palahniuk? That would be bad luck for me, since I've never read anything by him. My author turned out to be Beverly Cleary.
We walked the streets of Portland and talked. I told her in the most starstruck manner how important her books were to me as a child, how I'd practically memorized them and pretended to be Ramona. I told her I'd read her autobiography, the story of her Depression adolescence, so many times that the cover practically came off. I told her she'd provided my first knowledge of Portland, familiarized me with things like Mt. Hood for the first time. She told me warmly many times that she was happy to have inspired my love of the city. She also shared many secrets of her creativity. After having dinner together, we went to the coast, and she told me the ocean was very important to her. She said she would often write her stories out of order, and that whenever she had a story with no real beginning, she knew she had to go to the ocean. I woke up feeling refreshed by all she'd openly and warmly shared with me.
Upon waking, I wasn't sure whether Mrs. Cleary was even still alive, but Wikipedia tells me she is 93 years old. She gave an amazing interview at the age of 90. I wish I really could meet her, or at least let her know in some way how much her books have meant to me.
The night before last I had a better dream, though. I was on some sort of historical tour of Portland with a bunch of other adults. We wound up at the city library for a final lecture, and then they announced they were going to choose two lucky audience members to spend a day with famous Portland authors. I was one of the ones chosen, and I wondered who the authors would be. Chuck Palahniuk? That would be bad luck for me, since I've never read anything by him. My author turned out to be Beverly Cleary.
We walked the streets of Portland and talked. I told her in the most starstruck manner how important her books were to me as a child, how I'd practically memorized them and pretended to be Ramona. I told her I'd read her autobiography, the story of her Depression adolescence, so many times that the cover practically came off. I told her she'd provided my first knowledge of Portland, familiarized me with things like Mt. Hood for the first time. She told me warmly many times that she was happy to have inspired my love of the city. She also shared many secrets of her creativity. After having dinner together, we went to the coast, and she told me the ocean was very important to her. She said she would often write her stories out of order, and that whenever she had a story with no real beginning, she knew she had to go to the ocean. I woke up feeling refreshed by all she'd openly and warmly shared with me.
Upon waking, I wasn't sure whether Mrs. Cleary was even still alive, but Wikipedia tells me she is 93 years old. She gave an amazing interview at the age of 90. I wish I really could meet her, or at least let her know in some way how much her books have meant to me.