June 14th, 2005


weird dream

and am just jotting down before taking charlie and kim and chilluns to the airport

was at home (different home - was my parents living room from when i was a kid, the one on spring road) and was working on a story, drinking sake, doing something with a tarot deck and various bits of paper (research?) scattered all over the coffee table. there was a stack of books.

a girl shows up - collage age. rings doorbell, apologizes for bothering me, and for not calling before showing up, etc. she's yugoslav (or former yugoslav. whatever.) i invite her in.

sometimes, she's sitting on the sofa and i'm on the floor on a small turkish divan (red) on the other side of the coffee table. sometimes our places are reversed. from the perspective of the dream. we don't change positions/ they are just altered.

and she wants to know where i'm getting my story. because: "you see, i am girl from your story." and she proceeds to tell me that things that happened to the character in my story have happened to her.

this is not the spider/wolf/whatever chick story.

it might be fife & drum. it might be something else.

we sat down to a game of cards, sharing a drink of what might have been sake, or might have been slivovics, and she was leafing through my notebook that i was working in. there were 3 words written on the cover - stylized letters - one of them was "tovom," or something like that. another (maybe) "za". don't remember the third. that's what i was trying to read/see, as she was telling me something important about herself, when the alarm went off.

i think someone is feeling neglected, but i haven't figured out who...

he trod a path that few have trod

after years of dismissing (at best) and denouncing so-called reality TV shows, i have stumbled across one i can put up with. well, actually, it's fucking hysterical.


sheesh, most of my employees and co-workers waited for the 3 months trial period to be over before getting this crazy, writing bizarre stream of consciousness essays at 3am and emailing them to the whole staff, getting kicked out of their house and living in my spare room, and dancing around dressed in catholic school girl uniforms (which, face it, look really bad on men with beards) while playing guitar (in front of the suits, at work, during business hours).