My sweet subconscious served up a veritable pot-pourri of unrelated cultural and personal detritus this morning before the cat's pitiful yet piercing cries for food managed to bring me to consciousness.
I told you it was a pot-pourri.
First, I awoke around 3:00 with the realization that I had created a video game that might have been a hit back around 1987. Structured like a combination of Kommander Keene and Space Invaders, the player (which was me - as a girl, for some reason) must defend the earth against alien scum.
Unless most games of that era, it was relatively easy and I found myself shooting up levels and gaining extra "lives" faster than I lost the latter.
I awoke at the final stage, when the game suddenly included virtual reality. The alien invader was not a giant crocodilian with an extremely brittle shell. Still dangerous, it was now vulnerable to such weapons as being trod upon.
Nevertheless, hiding had also become a useful weapon, and I had found a staircase where they would never think to look! and so would permit me to sneak up upon that evil monster and put an end to it once and for all!
Unfortunately, nature called and I was called to make a sacrifice to the porcelain god and so never did see my ultimate triumph.
The night's final dream was a weird mish-mash.
Set at first on the set of that durable old sit-com, Cheers, it included such legendary drunks as Norm and Cliff as well as Ted Danson's character, Sam. We were engaged in playing some kind of practical joke upon a great bore, modeled at once upon one of my former co-workers and some irritating kid with whom I attended too many high-school parties.
During the getaway, in a car, I discovered that I had for some reason (which I could not remember) had two of my molars removed - for "cosmetic reasons", no less!
Meanwhile, Ted Danson had become my former boss, Oliver, and the car had morphed into my aunt and uncle's house, where (in real life) I lived for a year or so when I was about four years old. "Oliver", though still Oliver, had also become my cousin Karen's father and was gleefully distributing Q-Tips to all and sundry from a box of 60. "But only 3 each! The rest are mine!"
The rest of that family, however, consisted of old high-school friends along with myself, and we were engaged in putting together not one, but four zines, each one of which was templated with the design I had created for my zine many years ago, Edifice Rex.
Jesus. No wonder I usually hate listening to other people's dreams. This one is boring even me - thank god for the lj-cut. Hopefully, most of you have learned to skip over these morning pages. And perhaps my entire journal, considering the deafening lack of response I have been getting of late to even (what I think are) even my interesting posts. How does Sabotabby do it?
Oh yeah: probably with a tighter focus and much more interesting drama, when she bothers with drama at all.
Oh well, this journal is (in theory, anyway) for me, isn't it? You folks are just along for the ride.
Maybe I'll ask you folks for advice a little later on. I scribbled out a not-quite-love-letter to my favourite waitress the other night; perhaps I'll type it up and post it here, along with a poll and get your opinions as to whether or not I should deliver it to her.
Or perhaps not. Who knows?
All I know as of this typing, at - now - 9:06 in the morning, is that while my fingers are typing well, my subconscious is giving me precious little to work with.
Type to shut the fuck up.
And exeunt. (Already I grow weary of that "cute" little close-out.)