Archive for July, 2002

July 29th, 2002

» through that and this

I navigate the long, grey ribbon of road unrolling into morning mist, my car sleepy with dew, my stereo soft. I turn the volume up on Bells for Her and suddenly Tori’s piano is tip-toeing through the fog, each step falling dainty and precise. I reach blindly for my purse; I know the way well because I do this often. A blank receipt, a bank stub, a gum wrapper. The same black pen. My letters wobble and my car drifts looser between the lines as I write, frantic, trying to hold this moment.

I remember a time when my memory was sharp and sure, when I could quote verbatim pieces of unimportant conversation from past weeks. It slips away now, day by day. I am dimmer, duller, quieter inside. It is exhaustion which moves me now as I write this, exhaustion and the long press of time since I have last said anything here. I keep folding away bits with the intention of putting them here, meaning to weave a day together for you, even just a small portion of one. And now they are merely disjointed bits and too long has passed. The days are moving too quickly and the future looms.

When last someone asked me what I wanted to do with my life, I told them I was going to start a turf farm. Perhaps next time my answer will be Publishing.

The long and the short of this is: I am thoroughly enjoying my internship.

July 10th, 2002

» schizophrenic sims

Yesterday I ambushed my cat while he was napping on the back of the couch. I felt guilty doing it — sneaking up and whispering his name and having him look up at me with his sleepy, fluffy face, half his whiskers still bent crazily, his head tipped to one side. He went into the carrier easily enough, and seemed pleasantly confused about what was going on (which is nothing new) until we stepped outside.

Cats can sound so terribly pitiful when they want to. He meowed all the way to PetSmart, even when I stopped for gas. It was raining hard and there was a crash just east of my exit, so traffic was blocked up worse than rushhour. He’s nice and clean now, though. He looks quite handsome.

My aunt is pregnant. I meant to write about this weeks ago, because it is fantastic news and I’m terribly excited. She’s due sometime around February, I think, which is unfortunate because if things go well I will be in England then, so I won’t get to see the baby until I return in May.

Something odd is going on with my Sims. Spike was starting to get lonely in his crypt by himself, but he was asleep every time anyone came visiting, so he had no one to call. Just as things were reaching a point where he needed a trip downtown, a second Spike appeared in the crypt. At first I was delighted. How clever Maxis is! I thought. When a single Sim gets lonely, s/he can talk to her/himself! I wonder if only some of them can do this. I wonder if he’s schizophrenic…

There were a thousand possibilities. I assumed this double would fade away or leave after Spike’s social bar was back up, but he stayed on. He got in the hot tub and wouldn’t get back out.

He passed out in his own urine.

The original Spike didn’t seem to mind, though. He was quite content to romance himself.

I, however, am fast becoming annoyed with the duplicate. Maxis’ ruddy brilliant suggestion? Uninstall and reinstall. As if I haven’t done that enough lately. Phoey.

July 7th, 2002

» the gay chiliburger joint

A friend of mine and Mel’s decides to open a gay chiliburger joint. The clientelle are secretive, scornful of the new place though they frequent it. The burgers are gourmet, tiny silver dollar sized with rainbow cheese or special mustard or a round tortilla crisp. They have no appreciation.

They begin a game where someone is hired to nearly kill one of the group at the restaurant. After being attacked, the person gets to choose the next victim.

Mel and I take a secret path over rooftops and rope bridges to get to the restaurant, along with the mayor’s old wife. After the first attack, Bill is chosen. The restaurant owner is distressed but does not close (the aim of the marauders).

Mel and I are then targeted, and spend most of the rest of the dream separated, trying to escape the assassins, trying to make alliances. An older FBI agent is interested only in stealing illicit gropes of the mayor’s wife, who turns against me. Passing tourists film me hiding in a thicket of bushes and though they won’t call 911 at least my face is on camera, my terror documented. I hide in a rack of clothingk, the way I did when I was little, only I am found. An old white-haired man does some sort of magic to help conceal us from our pursuers and finally it ends.

July 6th, 2002

» the alps

The Alps again. Spring. Carl wants to climb to the summit so we leave our unrolled sleeping bags and other gear; we go up the trail. We’re reluctant, he impatient. He runs ahead to the top of a dull orange-brown rise, where he turns to look at us and an avalanche starts, enormous dusty rocks bouncing down around him because it is spring and the mountain is thawing.

* * *

We are taking a tour now of the Alps. I am in a little stick shift at the edge of a steep incline and after I reverse a little I cannot get it to go back and remain there, even with the parking brake on.

We have been warned about the c—, a deadly bird that hunts in the area. One is spotted below and though I battle it off, throwing it finally away from me, it swoops around and sets its talons in our guide’s head and carries him off.