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1�0�101010�0�1 2002-02-26, 1:59 p.m.

these dreams of poo, so real, so true


So holy shit, my friend who was getting married in May just told me this morning that the wedding is off. Not that it's any big surprise — her fiance has always been a load about making a commitment, but buying an engagement ring usually means you're sure [I say naively].

Her first concern when she contacted me was that I wasn't going to travel East to see her now, and I assured her I was still coming. It will be more fun now that she's not going to be an almost-married woman.

I had the most insufferable lunch meeting with Olly and some other people today. Now, in our company, etiquette demands that if you call a noon-time meeting, and call it a "lunch meeting" in your invitation, that you fork over change for food. Olly always forgets this part, and he showed up empty-handed today. So I had to sit through an hour of evasive answers to my blunt questions ("So, what is the purpose of this project, anyway?" "Hmmm, colddigits, that's a really good question, let me make a note of it and I'll figure that out") on a raging empty stomach.

My class got canceled tonight, and it's killing me that I might have an evening with no place to rush to or nothing to do. I mean, I could actually work on my freelance plan or do my taxes or something. What a concept.

Speaking of freelance, I just received an e-mail (thank God almighty for my new analog line at work, which allows me to check personal e-mail again!) from a Stanford Business School grad who's looking for some creatives to help him start a magazine. It sounds bitchin' — I'm sure there's no pay at first, but if he's an MBA, he probably has his eye on some hefty funding.

This diary has been so good for me, and I'm finding myself more and more thinking of things to write about in it. It's like the floodgates have burst. Like, yesterday I was driving home from working thinking that I really wanted to bitch in my diary about the state of music on the radio these days. How Natalie Imbreglia and Nellie Furtado should not qualify as alternative rock, for instance. But then it sort of slips away. It's good to rediscover that I have opinions about things, though.

I've been having very complex dreams lately. I should start writing about them. But one of the things I've always puzzled over is that I always dream about the same places, even when the plot is different. I have about five different settings that I've concocted, sort of like sound stages in the studio in my mind. They're all loosely based on places I know, but they're their own locations, with vivid details that never change. They include:

  • The big city. Sometimes this is a foreign city (like Tokyo) and sometimes it's domestic (last night it was a combo of Portland and Seattle). But there's always a park with a lake and a downtown financial district that gets deserted and shadowy at night.

  • The small college town. Probably a dream version of my small college town, it has huge hills, a little coffee shop where everybody hangs out, and lots of crumbling houses.

  • The hotel. This is usually in the big city, and has many levels that open into a maze of a parking garage. I spend a lot of time riding up and down in the elevator.

  • The big old house. I don't dream about this one so much anymore, but it was a cross between a musty old museum and a haunted mansion. I think my great-grandparents lived in it sometimes.

  • The train station. I am forever taking, and missing, trains in my dreams.

  • The school. This usually very much resembles my high school, only in my dreams, I forget to go to class for entire semesters.

I might also mention that from time to time, my grandmother shows up and informs me that she didn't really die when I was 9 years old, but has just been hiding all these years.





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