Dream 9/23/09

I think his name was Gerald, or Ed, or one of those names commonly given to older men who live alone. I'll go with Gerald. Gerald lived alone in a small apartment that, at least at the time of my dream, was rather dark. He had, for some time, been employing a group of mice to cook him meal after meal. (Even though Gerald was a tall, extremely thin man, his appetite was voracious.) The mice created and served him a rotating set of courses that were grand in their preparation, but usually made of bland ingredients, such as potatoes, boiled eggs, and white bread. It's the way Gerald wanted it.

As Gerald sat shirtless (this was how I knew how thin he really was), long, bony limbs furiously orchestrating the procession of utensils from plate-to-mouth, the apartment suddenly grew darker and the walls began to shake. The mice were in a panic, and retreated to the sink where they spent most of their time when they weren't cooking. Without warning, water gurgled forth from the drain, flooded the sink basin, and then retreated back into the pipes, taking with it Gerald's rodent chefs. [Cut to view from inside the sink, looking up through the drain] The mice are swirling down into the green murky waters, grasping for something to cling to. They start to swim and I'm comforted by the realization that these might be mice that can breathe underwater. They disperse (off to a pipe that will lead them to safety/another sink exit?) and the view once again changes to Gerald's kitchen as he's standing over the sink trying to comprehend what just took place. He looks down into the cold, steel sink; red grapes are laying in the bottom. I believe that at this point dramatic violin music starts, interspersed with the musical tension of classic horror movies.

As Gerald peers into the drain, hints of something tan and brown begin to emerge from the shadows. What look like hairy, pocked sticks begin to unfold into view, and a bulging, uneven orb with black, lifeless eyes slowly rises... it's a sick, mutated spider! BOOM I'm in a theater watching a trailer for a new movie and I am screeeeaammming at the sight of this freak-creature coming towards Gerald—towards me! Somewhere, in the back row, someone is telling me to shut up.

Cravings!

We all get cravings—sometimes it's for ice cream, other times for pizza or chocolate. I often find myself getting sharp cravings for clothing. Not like, "Oh, I need a new leather jacket", but more specific. For example, last night as I was falling asleep, I unexpectedly felt an intense need to wear boots. Immediately.

Not just any boots—I had a specific vision: 80' lace-up ankle boots. But not just any 80's lace-up ankle boots... they had to have sweater cuffs. If I had had a pair in the freezer, I would have gotten out of bed and put them on at 1 am. And, I don't even like these types of boots! I don't know what came over me—but it's all I could think about for the rest of the night, spilling over into today. I guess I am suffering from the fashion equivalent of odd pregnancy cravings.

Yes, yes, yes

Thank you CuteOverload.com for this spectacular comparison...

Kitten, will you marry me?

Double-dose

Ok, now, this coupled with the new Radiohead song might be too much awesomeness for one days' worth of entries, but, please behold:

I know that I could be mistaken, but I truly believe that whomever it is with this tattoo is so beyond any concept we have of "cool", that I'm amazed I didn't go blind just looking at the photo.

Stay gold, indeed!

New Radiohead!

Radiohead recently released a new song, These are my twisted words (thanks Matt!). You can download it here for free. 

AND, when you do download it, and you know you will, because it's Radiohead (and free), you also get a PDF containing 15 tree designs, with the suggestion to print on tracing paper. I would love to see some simple, haunting animation done with these. The way they are drawn makes you feel like you're under the tree, looking up. For some reason, I assumed lying down. (Get ready to see some new Halloween decor this year, Liz!)

In honor of the release, I decided to write down my own words, as they came to me, while listening to the new track. I typed whatever little story started growing in my mind and stopped writing when the song ended. Please forgive spelling and grammar mistakes, I wasn't really paying attention. It's kind of a fun way to experience a new song, and I suggest giving it a try. Anyway, so here's what These are my twisted words made happen in my head: 

"there is man in a room, an old dusty bar with few patrons and wood for walls. It’s dark, and he’s tapping his foot really fast. Another man enters, no, he was there all along. He’s playing his guitar. He might be in the man’s head. There’s a window with mountains outside, but the view is obscured by slivers of trees; black streaks against the sunset. He’s tapping his foot, faster and faster. He stops and walks over to the window, taking his hand and running it through his thick, greasy hair. It’s white, but yellowed with age. The other man is completely in shadow, but his guitar is vibrating the glasses on the table. The man begins pacing the room again, hands flying in foreign gestures. The window expands until it is the forefront. Grass and trees spin back, dipped, and pop up to see inside the bar; the man pacing, now through the window. He’s obscured by the shado-guitar man. The tree streaks quiver and stop. Repeat and stand still. The sun goes down."

 

A different shade of grey

The temperature hit 107 in Portland a few weeks ago and there was only one thing for me and my roommates to do: put the air conditioner in the living room window, block the doorways with blankets, and wear as little clothing as possible.

As the heat wave persisted and the hours spent in our homespun fortress mounted, minds began to melt alongside ice cubes, sense and custom evaporated, and we soon found ourselves echoing the hum and frenzy of those perpetual residents, the ladies of Grey Gardens.

Thankfully, the temperate Oregon summer returned, as did our clothes and sanity.

A sentiment I can understand

Just saw this wonderful wall sticker on anything goes.

"I love you more than sleep" by Robert Ryan.

If I ever say this to someone, you'll know it's serious.

What are the mice in my head drinking...

As I walked to the bathroom today, I looked down at my freshly doubled-knotted shoelaces and instantly thought: "Oh no! I've tied my shoes too tight—now how will I go to the bathroom?" 

My second thought was: "Why did I just think that?"  Was I planning on taking off my pants? Did I get confused and think that one went to the bathroom with their feet? Was I channeling Britney Spears right before she walks into a gas station restroom? 

 

Why mom, why?

Just writing that title leads me to believe this could be a recurring installment. Anywho, shortly after my last post, I went home to Sandy to visit the family. Upon walking into my house, I noticed that all my mother's porcelain dolls were naked, laying side-by-side on the couch. My first thought was: "Oh my god, the dolls have retaliated, eaten my family, and are now enjoying a post-bloodbath-orgy-nap." Before I had time to smother the dolls with a pillow (my second thought) or light the entire house on fire thus cleansing the area of such demonic possession, my mom informed me that she was washing their clothes. How dolls sitting on shelves for 20 years get "dirty" is beyond me, but I'm pretty sure she had something to do with it.

Dear god no

From the people who brought you my worst nightmare, and a childhood of terror-laden dreams, comes Doll Reader magazine.

A preview of an article from their current issue: "Ginny the Paper Doll 1951—Ginny enjoys a July 4th picnic with all the trimmings."  How much do you want to bet those "trimmings" Ginny's eating are human hearts and deep-fried kitten legs? 

Just knowing that this exists makes me feel like I'm wearing sweat-soaked pajamas.

I've always been fascinated by the similarities between mathematics and art. (Although, anyone that knows me will agree that I am staggeringly inept at anything involving numbers.) It's the way mathematics expresses itself symbolically that intrigues me—numerical prose used in an attempt to describe the indescribable. Math and art often share the same goal: to make the seemingly unquantifiable become more lucid through using a series of symbols and analogies. 

Through mathematics and the various arts, elusive beauty can be discovered and shared via a representative. Sometimes this representative is a symphony, an oil painting, a poem, and sometimes it is a sculpture depicting the three-dimensional "shadow" of a four-dimensional object. I won't try to describe the Octacube any further at this point, but will strongly suggest that you take a look at this article describing its design and significance. I recently came across this page (though the sculpture was unveiled in 2005) while searching for something else, and was immediately struck by the piece's beauty, both as a work of art, and as a tool of mathematical representation.  

Short short story

 

WINDOWS

We talked to each other through our houses: Running from one room to the next, raising and shutting blinds, making eyes blink, making tiny square mouths talk. At night, she made her house blush, turning on both lamps behind the red living room curtains. To tell her goodnight I went to the top floor, turned off every light except for one, and slowly pulled down my two bedroom shades, fluttering them just a little at the bottom. When I said goodbye, she opened the attic window just an inch and poured a cup of water through the crack. 

Put your best (freakishly large) foot forward

This picture makes me think that if I found an old lamp and rubbed it and a genie came out, I would definitely make one of my wishes be that ALL cat paws looked like this:

From Cuteoverload.com:

Waffles the cat, stepped on a bee. (Looks familiar, huh Liz?)

The gloaming

Dusk. Twilight. The gloaming. Whatever you refer to it as, we all know it by the distinct lighting and uncanny effect on our sense of possibility. You can't quite put your finger on it—both figuratively and literally—but, this occurrence has etched the minds and memories of poets and paupers alike.

From Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow:

"... there comes to Slothrop the best feeling dusk in a foreign city can bring: just where sky's light balances the electric lamplight in the street, just before the first star, some promise of events without cause, surprises, a direction at right angles to every direction his life has been able to find up till now."

Terror-ific dream!

Last night I had a dream that:

My friend Liz and I had to contribute Valentine-like sentiments to a green balloon to give someone for Halloween. I saw that Liz was having trouble deciding what to put, so I suggested she write,  "I think you're Boo-tiful."  

I wrote: "Frank(enstein)ly my dear, I don't give a damn." 

Word of the Day

Of or pertaining to dreams.

What the H 4E21?

My apologies for more Forever21-infused content. And in fact, I didn't allude to it in the title, but I'm gonna hit you with a double whammy.

First: We all know that the aforementioned store is great for finding current trend knock-offs at knock-off prices, but I was still a little surprised when I was browsing their website and came across a (nearly) identical replica of a new dress of mine. Check out the redonkulousness: 

The dress on the left is from Forever21, retail price $22. The dress on the right is mine, from a tiny boutique in New Jersey. Retail price $99. Now, of course, I didn't pay $99 for it. It was on the sale rack and after a few passes, I couldn't help but find something charming in the plaid and paisley pattern incest, and purchased it or $9.99. 

Second: I've found myself, more than a few times, in a situation where I didn't really want to audibly respond "Forever21" to a friend's "ohmygodwheredyougethat?" 

So... I made up this handy code:

Simply flash this series of hand signals (at waist-height for optimal discretion) to your friends—"4", "E", "2", "1"—for tacit acknowledgment of your shopping habits.

Southwest Vindication

A little while back, I posted "Trend forecast—Indian summer alert!", wherein I predicted that a new wave of Navajo blanket/Southwest summer home drapes/Northern Exposure wardrobe patterns and designs were all set to blast onto the scene. 

Well, check out this sampler of new Forever21 frocks and accessories. (I mean, is there really a more accurate barometer of ubiquitous trends—for better or worse?):

Boom. I rest my case.

Watch for my next summer forecast—The invisible river: Hipsters and aqua-socks.

Wintour Goat

Now it's time for one of my favorite games: "What person does this animal look like?!" 

They were playing this today at CuteOverload.com, using a photo of "McSheepersons":

My immediate response was (duh) Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of American Vogue:

I didn't look at all 341 of the comments following CuteOverload's post, but I didn't see Anna's name mentioned in the first twenty or so I did read. I think Jack Nicholson was my second favorite answer answer. Carol Channing was a nice effort as well, though she is too smiley to be mistaken for McSheeperson. 

I mean, this just feels right:

Rad-ish? YES! Tasty? Kinda...

Today I perused the local farmer's market (they accept food stamps!) and picked up a bundle of radishes. I've always been fond of the crisp, scarlet vegetables with their uncompromising flavor, but had only experienced them in salads. I looked up "radish recipes" online and quickly decided on the simple-sounding "baked radishes". And though it was indeed simple, the recipe required a little more than simply sticking the radishes in a pan and putting them in the oven, as I had assumed. 

First, you must steam the vegetables. Hhhm, steam vegetables... Does this involve an iron? How about taking the radishes into the shower with me and turning on the hot water? Apparently not. After remembering that my friend Simone had once used a perforated hat-thing to steam brussels sprouts, I googled "how to steam vegetables". (Please stop snickering.) Turns out that it's eeeaasy. Next, comes the glaze, which just consists of heating up some honey and a dash of cinnamon. Well, actually the recipe called for butter in the glaze, but we were out. I contemplated adding some olive oil, but was interrupted by a vision of Liz, in the kitchen, slowly shaking her head at me. I left the olive oil out. Whether it would've ruined the glaze, I'll never now. Unless someone tells me. 

When the radishes are done steaming, they go in a small baking pan where you seductively drizzle glaze on them. How you drizzle the glaze is your own choice, but I can't imagine any other way to drizzle. (I just realized that usually, glazes are brushed on. Oh well.) Anyway, the radishes bake for about thirty minutes, or until tender. 

The first bite: Not bad! The combination of sweet and, well, radish, was pretty good. AND THEN... things got crazy and I decided to add cottage cheese. 

Rad. 

I love this.

A celebration of translation. 

http://www.engrish.com/

Trend forecast— Indian Summer Alert!

I just want to state, right now, that Navajo print is going to be IN, in a BIG way. SOON. I saw some guy (possibly a homeless gentleman) wearing an old wool Navajo print jacket the other day and I instantly said: "that, Michelle, is not the last you'll see of 1960's New Mexico (or current Alaskan) revival fashion. This retired print is on it's way, creeping out from within vintage couture collections, my great-grandpa's closet, and the couch in your family's summer lake cabin, and is on its way to Kate Moss' body. I will also keep an eye on Lindsey Lohan, for as soon as she dons a Navajo-patterned tank or short-shorts, my forecast will also be validated. 

[Photo courtesy of Fashion156.com—don't worry Rhian, that jacket will be in Forever21 before you know it.]

For Liz

I'm a little rusty and nervous. If this were a stage I'd be pigeon-toed. So, as a warm-up, here's one of my favorite formats—the list!

In the past months, I've:

1. Visited NYC for the first time

2. Attended a prom at Princeton U.

3. Been to Kauai 

4. Scoffed at a cattery*

5. Seen a whale jumping

6. Wore a Blazer jersey as a dress

7. Been reunited twice with lost $20 bills 

8. Applied for a job as a veterinarian receptionist

9. Drank whiskey in the ocean

10. Had my heart mugged

11. Learned to get over it

* Cattery, while not a real word, is the undisputed name my family** uses to describe a confined outdoor "play" area for cats. Yes, they have built their own cattery, with a possible roof-edition to follow, pending the probability of feline escape tactics.

** By family, I mean everyone in my family except me. 

The 26-year-old virgin

1.22.09

Phone call with the Mother...

"Hi Mom. Yep, today's the day. I know, I know, it is about time. Yeah, a little nervous, but Simone's always here if anything goes wrong. Ok, I'll call you when I'm done. Oh, wait, wait... Mom? Does the chicken go in the stove or on the stove?"

Brand-new-old apron on waist, pestle and mortar borrowed from neighbor, and freshly-purchased groceries on the kitchen table—I was ready to cook my first meal! Granted, this meal was merely chicken caesar salad, but, you must remember that I am unable to cook Mac and cheese without A.) ending up with some turn-of-the-century orphanage gruel or B.) Acquiring 3rd degree burns on my forehead. 

I started by researching recipes on the internet. First, I looked up "simple caesar salad recipe", but the idea of store-bought croutons and dressing seemed to cheapen the epicurean meal I had envisioned. Finally I landed at the blog Adaptations, which featured a recipe from Jamie Oliver (I believe he's the young 'I'm-good-looking-in-an-Irish-way' chef). It called for you to make your own croutons and dressing, but still seemed simple enough for even the most novice of cooks. And by novice I mean virginal. 

Besides omitting the Pancetta (and by omitting, I mean forgetting to buy), and having to ask where the Rosemary sprigs were (it wasn't in the spice aisle), the actual preparation and cooking went along quite nicely (thank you though Simone, for assuring me the chicken was in fact cooked.) It was only moments before the unveiling of the meal, that I realized my one egregious mistake (and figured out why the dressing was so strong and had seared my mouth with a robust lingering of garlic): I had put in 1/4 of a garlic bulb not 1/4 of a garlic clove—as the recipe had called for. Whoops. 

Sandy Crunk!

I am no mathematician, but let me fill you in on a little somthin somthin: four whiskey-7s at Tollgate Inn Restaurant and Lounge + visiting your parents = Blogspot Top Ten!

Today's Top Ten Moments—Sandy Edition:

1. "Oh my god, shut the door—you're getting vomit all over it!" [our 12-year old yellow lab Maverick ate too much, too quick.]

2. Walking into the bathroom to see Sassy, our gender-indeterminate cat, drooling on herself.

3. Watching my brother win $100 playing "Princess" on the slot machines.

4. Watching the "ExtenZe: Male Enhancement Vitamin" infomercial with Grammie and my Step dad (have you ever listened to the line "noticeably thicker and more intense" while your Alzheimer-stricken grandma nodded along?) 

5. Discussing the parallels between Maverick and Brad Pitt's character in "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button". Seriously. 

6. Did I mention four drinks at Tollgate?

7. My brother insisting we stop for Raspberry-filled donuts at 7-11 at 10 pm, while mom shouts "if you become obese I'll disown you!". She was joking. I think.

8. Taking fifteen minutes to figure out how to spell "raspberry".

9. Seeing an original photograph of my Great-great grandparents in Belgium. 

10. Trying to type after four drinks at Milkshake—I mean Tollgate.

Before I forget

Last night I had a dream that, amongst other things, I was an older British gentleman. I went into a store (existing within a futuristic Truman Show-esque setting) to buy a fake dwarf for god-knows-what. Instead, I browsed the wide selection of apparel and purchased lime green spandex briefs with fringe dangling down about six inches on either side. On the rear, the word "FACE" was written in black sequins. 

Who needs drugs with naps like these...

I woke up from a nap about twenty minutes ago and am still not completely convinced I'm awake. 

As an adolescent I would commonly awake from naps to see neon heiraglyphics—sometimes indecipherable words, sometimes foreign markings and lines—etched on the walls and ceiling, which would quickly fade as I became more conscious. I would also sometimes be in such extreme states of disorientation that I couldn't even recognize a phone call from my mother. Once, she called to tell me she'd be home soon for dinner, but I couldn't even comprehend who was calling me, let alone why they were calling. Who was this woman? I had a mother? I'd been born? I had no concept of who I was, where I was, or what I was—just that I had picked up a telephone only to be answered by a bodiless voice on the other end. Oh, and no, I was not an eleven year-old acid addict or nap-time narcotics abuser.

These incidents have dwindled as I've grown older, but in the past year I've noticed an increase in a nap-time experience I'd like to call 'The Conscious Coma'. In this state, you are completely aware that you are sleeping and that you'd like to wake up. However, your body has other plans. It requires all your focus and determination just to open an eye or lift your hand—your body won't let you wake up. Today this occurred while napping in Liz's room as she cleaned and packed. After about an hour of being asleep, I "awoke" but couldn't really do anything about it. I heard her music playing, and could even distinguish which band (the everybodyfields), but couldn't manage to get my body to exert itself past a finger lift or eye flutter. Between these attempts, my body would play little dream jokes on me, where I would fall back asleep and dream that I finally woke up, got out of Liz's room, and went about my business. However, every time I'd "awake" again only to find myself lying in Liz's bed, hands neatly folded atop her Ikea duvet. Finally, I decided I needed Liz's help. I knew she was in the room (after a strenuous eye-opening mission) and decided to try and call out her name. The first few came out as inaudible hisses, but eventually (thank you Liz for having such an easy name to emergency-whisper during nap coma attacks!) I was able to emit a noise that sounded something like a very old man saying "iz". This was confirmed by Liz after I abruptly came out of my "coma", sat up and said "Liz, did you here me say your name?!"

However, because of the numerous psyche-out dreams in which I thought I actually got up, I was not quite convinced I had actually woken up—even after going to the bathroom and drinking some water. So, I decided to walk to the coffee shop down the street. This didn't really help to prove anything, since the first thing I saw was a puppy in a Blazer sweater and an English bulldog with tiger stripes—great, I'm either still dreaming or in heaven. So, I write this now in hopes that looking upon this entry tomorrow will finally prove to me that I am awake.