The Strange and Unaccountable Account of the Adventures of a 21st Century Lady

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

There I was, cuddled under my sheet and my comforter. Got under the comforter at around 6 because that's when I first woke up. Realized, hey, the dream I'm passing through is scary; put on more armor in form of comforter. Slipped back into dream, which was vivid and sharp and interesting. Black yarn used to circle space in the hope that undead can't pass over, they'd appear where the yarn ran out and try to push through a wall, anything to not go over the yarn. Witch doctor undead I think meets the Hot Zone disease. Between emergency get-to-safety hours: interesting classes on human culture; on dead kings in divination (a topic am obsessed with right now). This horrible moment during one of the emergency stay-in-your-yarn-boundary, hope-others-aren't-being-ripped-apart when this old woman dream leaves for second, reassuring me and two other people also in the safe spot that it'll be okay, she's just going to get something. She's followed by another of our circle, and because of anxious roaming I am horrified to see second woman kill the first woman by sneaking behind her on the stair and stabbing through the top of her head. First woman struggles, but second woman pushes her outside her individual safety bubble thing and then the undead come. The perfect crime. But why'd she do it? She comes back, all "worried," "think she was lost," etc. There turns out to've been some prophecy; there's tons of Hermetic magick-as-daily-technology-life in this dream. And, yannow, it was interesting.

Then ... the roof-repair guys came. On the one hand, I'm glad they're here. Really, I am. On the other hand ... it was only 8, and this is also my only day off in what feels like a forever of waking up super early. I am now holed up in another room with the two hiding cats, my room covered in plastic, thinking regretfully of my double-comforter fortified bed.

So. This Here Post.

I am at a loss.

I just read this post. About a woman, another woman, their children and a hospital. The first woman collapsed and was taken to the hospital for medical attention; the other woman and children followed behind the ambulance. They were denied the ability to see her, to be with her in her final hours: hours they knew were final, because life-saving procedures had been suspended, blah fucking blah. And I honestly cannot understand, not even a little bit, how anybody could allow that -- much less dismiss the surviving woman's case against the hospital. A girlfriend who had no documentation at all -- maybe then I'd understand a little better; I'd still think it was stupid and horrific, but I could think, Hey. They were just trying to -- (note, I'm having trouble justifying even this) -- do right by their patience. Where was the proof? But this woman had proof. Their children's birth certificates had both of their names on them! The woman was power-of-attorney and final-decider-whatever for the dying woman!

So -- what's broken, here? What outdated, unnecessary, archaic piece of #^&@! is clogging the works? What words need to be stricken and rewritten in order for the dying to have someone at their side? For family, who are family of choice, not by accident of blood, to be able to support their own in the last hours?

It just pisses me off. Maybe, in part, because -- who wants to die alone? Hell. Even in film, folk hardly ever die alone -- they always get a last look, a last word. And why, if not because everybody understands the value intrinsic in this concept: We want to be with somebody who acknowledges our life when we pass on. Preferably, someone who loves your name -- someone you love. Family.

Argh.

http://www.the-spearhead.com/2009/10/09/the-war-on-science-fiction-and-marvin-minsky/

That link. What the? I'm actually a little blinky right now; maybe even agape. I have thoughts, but haven't yet been able to scoop them together into a snowball. But: what? The boys of this generation won't be able to be inspired by science fiction to create new technology because science fiction has been ruined by women what with their pesky relationship drama? What? Funny, how the technological achievements that a WOMAN might be inspired to make -- aren't even there between the lines of this article. I guess all women can hope to have is "moronic slash fiction" and "relationship drama" -- no, really, WHAT?

Poll #1467106 Hungry For Words. Must Have Words Wot To Read!
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 23

What oh what should a restless and word-hungry ink-mouthed indecisive Jess read?

The restlessness. Hallp.

Via shadesong

I love reading aloud;
I love words.
I love my family-by-blood;
I love the ones I choose.
I love ballads-in-the-ear;
I love music, heard outside.
I love writing a story out for someone;
I love the rush that comes when a new knot of information untangles.
I love poetry, and apricot stilton,
and conversations after dark.
I love places where you can walk wherever you need to go.
I love art. I love uncopied art.
I love giving gifts to people,
and I love Peter S. Beagle, certain movies,
beginning to plot out this idea of learning something new.
I love days with no demands;
I love days when I wake up early, unharassed and ubidden;
I love this place I am right now,
and I love foxes, stars and the Moon.
I love fire season, in spite of its calamitous doom!,
and I love costumes, masks and tea.
I love watching someone else work on something creative,
and beeswax candles.
I love rain.

"And this stone is the virgin, and this stone is... And if you're very unfortunate, like I have been, you'll find people copulating on them." Slater, one of the other house guests, recounting some of his adventures on the Moor, is here quoting the Lord of the Manor who caught he and Julie trespassing, then began to give them a tour of the land around Scorhill.

Amal: "Ah. The sweet sound of me being right. (long pause) It sounds an awful lot like the Pussycat Dolls."

Once upon a time there was a maiden fair as flax, fair as ever tales have told of fairness, fair as fairy folk feasting on fine honey wine. Her eyes were full of oceanspill, and she, for all her many felicities, neglected to log out of her LJ account whilst allowing a sometmes-mischievous friend the use of her laptop. The result was, as you might imagine, predictable.

And cut short, for lo, she returneth! Meep!

An update.

I am in Chagford. I love it here; the air is clear and has this smell that I've never smelled elsewhere. My experience is not so extensive, but still, I think it must be here; I love it. I would write more, but I'm so very exhausted. Good exhausted, but exhausted nonetheless. Amal is doing edits, and I'm waiting for her to finish so that we might watch another episode of Wonderfalls and eat apricot stilton. The apricot stilton I so lauded for two years is still here! More on that once I've actually tasted it again. There was cranberry stilton in the refrigerator yesterday, and it was sweet and tasty; crumbled against the tongue and melted. Mm. Many were the cheeses picked up at the dairy. This is a problem: I keep half-deciding to go on a no-dairy fast for a couple of weeks, and then going to these delicious cheese shops where all I want is to nibble that gruyere or try that cambozola. The village is as beautiful as it could be. Yesterday, the sky was clear as clear; there are blackberries heavy in the hedges when I walk down the narrow roads. Some are tart and some are sweet. Today, the sky was white with mist but the air was still clear. In the Ring o Bells, a pub, Amal and I marvelled over changes we noticed, then mocked ourselves for being all "Back in the day," and "Oh, before it was like this," just as if we were oldtimers or localcrones. I was just possessed of the irresistable urge to re-read Lolly Willowes! Sadly, I brought it not. In fact, full half of the clothes I meant to bring are still on my bed, as I realized once I actually unpacked my bag.

I suppose I'm writing more after all. Now I really will stop.

That's all.

Acquired,
1 copy of WITCH POEMS by Trina Schart Hyman.
1 Parrish Relics necklace with Waterhouse's redhaired Miranda and a seashell.
1 beehive shaped honey dispenser, for tea.
1 pack of Teavana tea
And 1 BPAL l.e. bottle to come.

Also acquired,
A bottle of wine from the Ghost Pines, still untouched.
A scratch at the constant itch that is espresso milkshakes. THOSE espresso milkshakes, the ones I talk about constantly; the ones that are so delicious that I think there should be a constellation or at least an asteroid named after them, that their fame might travel beyond our earthly realm and into a colder one.

Notable Memories:
- The water, so cold and so sweet; the scattering of mermaid bones/foam, the beach giant's veil.

- We crossed a rocky divide. Jackie: "This beach is sinister." Clumps of kelp, flies swirling in little cyclones; noone in the water. Me: "Look. You know my luck with dead birds. Keep an eye out, okay?" Jackie: "I understand." The foam on this side of the beach: yellow, like old fabric splotchy with time. A jaunty dad and his son, playing baseball right at the top of the sanddune. Me, pausing: "Is that a dead seal. That's a dead seal isn't it." Me, staying by the water. I know; I can tell by the dark shape of the ragged fin pointing toward the sky. Jackie, with a wide-eyed I'makickass look to me, "Hold on, I'll go check." And she did. Jaunty baseball dad: "HAHA IT'S GOING TO BITE YOU." Jackie, returning: "It's head is gone. And it's guts are out. It's head is totally gone; you can see the vertebrae where it was sliced off. It's the saddest thing I've ever seen. And the hole in its belly where the seagulls have started pecking out its intestines." Me: "Yannow, let's go back to the other beach. This is an evil beach. " Jackie: "Yes." Us: "Why was that guy playing baseball with his kid so close to the corpse?!"

- Espresso milkshakes. The first thing we did after stowing our things. They are as good now as they were a year ago and now I know where to go (Elise!) should espresso milkshakes be demanded of another Ventura trip. They are a poem. They, combined with Jackie's first gift, also lead to some very, very wacky fun and blackmail photos. Sadly, blackmail photos of me, too, so we've got a Mexican stand off going on. Note: When did that phrase come into usage? Mexican standoff?

- Coming in from the cold beach to the fireplace toasty room.

- Introducing Jackie to Swing on the cold and star-skied beach, gratified by her desire to bop and hop, although this was difficult since we were sharing one set of earbuds. Did not go very far into the water this time around, but realized I've never been night swimming in the ocean. I wonder where it would be a good idea to do this, and whether or not I should put it on a list of things I want to do and WILL do.

And when I came home:

A mail-box stuffed with Birthday Poems. I feel very much as if I was being re-wrought into song, and I like it.

Also, a PODCAST interview w/ Amal and I. Which I can't listen to, because I am far too embarrassed by the sound of my speaking voice. Gah. I've listened to about twenty minutes of it, and then the shame set in and I had to pause it to return at a later date, but it is very cool.

And that was my birthday.

Youtube! I sometimes love you.

The cover for "Liar" is going to be changed. I'm so glad; how often are mistakes acknowledged and then a simple change effected? Not very, and I am full of gladness that it will. Behold:

Right here.

All I know about "Liar" is that it is a teen book about an African American protaganist whose hair is described as nappy and who is a pathological liar. Also, that the cover was going to be a white girl with long straight hair tied over her mouth and that the author was not satisfied with the cover. Who would be? I love to see artist's representations of things that I have created. But I know well the sock-in-the-gut, of, oh. But that's wrong. Not just: that's interpreted in a way I did not mean for it to be interpreted, but "wait, hey, I don't have any characters with _______ color hair in my story at all."

What I didn't know was that Richard Scarry re-drew anything because of claims of sexism; I find that interesting, especially since, in the context the article mentioned it, I also find that people fall very easily into thinking in those stereotypes. There's a commercial for some kind of laundry detergent right now which drives me twitchy. The commercial shows washing machines throughout the ages. From 1906 or 1916 and up? And it also shows a montage of women doing laundry. This is fine; after all, historically, it was the stay-at-home ladies who took care of the laundry. But then, in a voice so smug and condescending, one could butter ones bread with the smug, the voice says something like, "Just like women have been doing for generations. And, (smugsmugheeheeheeawaren'ttheyadorable <--subtext) sometimes the boys too." Then after showing, oh, three guys doing laundry, switches back to smug-condescending-mother-figure who's just so perfect and likes being at her rightful place beside the laundry. I have nothing against laundry; it smells nice, I am not very good at it and our laundry machine scares me, since recently it's begun to make noises like one of Agatha Heterodyne's clanks-becoming-doom!clank, but this commercial just makes me want to bite the t-shirt collars off of whoever wrote and produced it.

Edited To Add:

Ah hah! Here it is. I do think it's interesting -- seeing the different laundry machines from different decades, and noting how very little they really seem to change. The future is not how it is in cartoons -- so different that some things are unrecognizable. And the line is, "And maybe even a man or two." Which -- I think it's the tone in which the voice-over is done -- still drives me crazy. Men do laundry, drat it.

I am very particular about art. Particularly: am particular about art that goes next to poetry, art that illustrates children's books and cover art. Just now I want to make a comment on cover art and go on record saying I do not like this trend toward hyperrealistic-almost-photograph pictures of girls on teen covers, especially when they're accompanied by sparkles. What's making me say this now? Nina Kiriki Hoffman's "Fall of Light." I bought this book because the plot sounded fairly awesome and I'd read a couple interesting reviews, but I almost didn't buy it, because I hate the cover that much.

And I just dug it out of the To Read pile, and the cover still makes me hate so much that I sort've want to return it. This isn't fair to the book, but I just hate the cover that much. Maybe if the sparkles weren't so diamond-shaped or the nightgown wasn't so clearly painted while the girl's face is more photo-realist. Maybe if the leaves weren't so green or the sparkles didn't lead off into a white splotch at the top of an 'enchanted' forest scene. Maybe if the girl wasn't part of it at all -- in fact, I really think I'd prefer that art. Laid-out the same, but without the girl. Although the sparkles would still be there. And the very edges of letters in 'Fall of Light' have particularly large 'sparkles.'

The key draw of ReaderCon, for me at least, was the company I kept. And the company I kept? Rocked.

Also very important to me were Goblin Fruit plans: to launch Fresh from the Vine, to launch the Summer 2009 issue, to hold a Goblin Fruit Launch room party on the first night of the con, which was the 9th, and also the Goblin Fruit/Mythic Delirium poetry reading. Oh, and also! Apparently, a podcast interview-thing with emilytheslayer. All these plans? Successful!

The van of dubious durability did not break down; Julian was very good on the ride into Massachusetts. We arrived spot on time, and almost immediately got a Leah Bobet, her dark hair streaked in that blue a seawave will undulate, that blue that is a shadow. Almost immediately afterward, we got a Sonya Taaffe, who walked straight over to us, followed by this long smoke's trail of hair the dustgold color smoke gets in wildfire season. "I saw your bag and figured you must be cool people." [The bag: Undine, from BabaStudioPrague.] Ha! I almost forgot to introduce myself I was so gleeful, and I was spirited away to meet Greer Gilman on the kerb outside the hotel. Greer, who was, every time I saw her, fabulously colored in shades of blue, feathers peeking out from beneath her cap. She had a happyfool's smile, which is not to say she looked like a fool, but the impression of her I most took from the Con was Greer, her eyes closed and a huge smile on her face, head tilted as she listened and was transported by words. I think it was Sonya who suggested that our little mob claim the couches in the hallway just outside the lobby, because the lobby was getting louder and louder as more and more people arrived and saw people they loved. A couple of hours went by, and I lingered at this couch, waiting for Amal. Found a Claire, who was in her glamour, and ruddy-cheeked, and swept her to our couch as well. Claire brought with her Rosemary and Gene Wolfe; Gene Wolfe reminded me of a walrus, or one of those diminished trickster-gods who, whilst seeming quite jovial, could at the drop of a hat tie you up in moustache and make you very sorry indeed that you'd been rude! When introduced, his response was, "THAT Jess." Eventually, I realized that Amal may've put my name down for the hotel in case she & co arrived late, and I returned with key in hand, but continued to linger, waiting for Amal, watching people go by.

Amal & co: Amal, Caitlyn Paxson, Dounya. Caitlyn was to be my bedfellow this convention, and looked nothing like I expected from the few pictures I'd seen; why this is so, I do not know, and I envy after her pre-Raphaelite tresses and her voice. Although we'd only exchanged a few e-mails outside the realm of Goblin Fruit, and I knew her from LJ and Amal's stories, I actually do not recall just when she started to feel like an old friend. I think the change was almost instantaneous?

The most exciting thing about the rest of my party arriving was the chapbook, Demon Lovers and Other Difficulties, which I could finally see. I'd made Amal promise not to show anybody else until I could see, and we considered waiting until we were in our room; instead, we put the box on the table in front of the couch and chairs we'd commandeered, squinted suspiciously at tricky Claires and Alexes and Nicoles who started prying at the tape, and then opened the thing with Leah, Alex, Gene & Mary, Dounya & Caitlyn for witnesses. I have pictures of Nicole holding the first copies in her hands, and contributor copies were given she and Claire, and it was just so pleasing, because the chapbook exceeds my expectation of quality and gorgeousness. I want to say it's perfect, but hey, I am a tad biased.

The happy couch party broke up and we went to our room -- and there was a moment of dismay: it was mostly comprised of bed. Lots of bed, and no floor space. We managed to get a remarkable amount of space by pushing the beds apart and against the wall. The difference it made was vast! The headboards were apparently attached to the wall, so floating wooden -- excuse me, "wooden" -- rectangles were left behind. Amal and I realized we needed to do some last minute Goblin Fruit coding, and to that end, we enlisted the "Free Internet" provided by the hotel. Which was 13.95 a day, or $97 a week. And also didn't work. At all. It hurt like rolling on a bed of nails, that's how painfully slow the internet connection was. Gmail wouldn't open, and no typo fixes would change -- forget about uploading the last few soundfiles! Wasn't going to happen. We complained, and they gave us the internet free for the night, as we were in Dire Need. We'd plotted to press the button that changed Spring to Summer in our room at the Launch Party, but instead we commandeered two spots in the three-computer "Business" computer lab, which actually did have free internet access that also worked. We ate by scavenging from Dounya & Caitlyn's plates in the hotel pub, which was just outside the business computer lab, and they graciously agreed to set the room up for the party, which was to begin at 10.

At 9:40ish, Caitlyn came down to let us know that, "Uhm, we already have guests. We're just going to try to entertain them..."

At some point, Mike & Anita ruined the plan Amal, Nicole and I had to Velociraptor Attack him by finding us before we could find him: We were still hunched over the keybord in the business room. We sent him and Anita up, and finished soon after.

The room? was already pretty full of people lounging on beds when we arrived. Emilytheslayer's friend, awesome Mandy, with the steampunkish mask in Amal's mistress Amal icon allowed me to fondle her mask, even though I really, really wanted to thieve it away. The party was fabulous -- we couldn't have made it better, unless the room had been a little larger, and the air-conditioner a little more powerful. Afterward, we all figured based on photographic evidence, that we'd had 60ish people in our room and trailing into the hall. Nicole brewed cider-mead and another sweeter honeymead, which went around like water, and she'd also baked coconut curry cookies and very spicy Aztec brownies and what Amal keeps called "dessicated" (ahem: dehydrated) banana slices. Cat brought lemon-basil shortbread and mango chutney, all homemade. Anita made "goblin fruit," which is apparently dates stuffed with bacon and goatcheese, covered in candied orange peel. And Anita? Is cool people. I figured this out the first time I met her, but I cool her more think. Yes: cool her more think. Nicole, Dan, the Changeling & I'd also picked up gluten free rice chips and apple juice. Shira brought girlscout cookies, Amal brought faery cookies -- we were set for feasting.

There's so much to say about the party, and so little to say, really. People had fun; there was a constant flow from the hall, and everybody was very polite when it came time for someone to move, because to get from one spot to another, one truly did need to Make Way and Part the People Sea. Caitlyn played the harp, Claire looked so coy and lovely beside the harp, Nicole also had a little space in which she appeared demure. Sonya sang Lal Waterson's "Midnight Feast," and her eyes were selkie dark, and her voice -- powerful. It pinned everyone in place.

Amal did the Preamble (she is fond of Preambles!) for the actual launch, and the Summer 2009 issue loaded -- sloooooooooooowwwwwwlllly as a dinosaur pulling itself free from taaaarrrrrrrr -- on the computer to the rousing, heck, deafening, cheers of the partygoers. "It's like being back in the nineties!" someone shouted, and then the issue was there, we drank of mead, and the festivities continued. I kept wending my way to the hall, asking anyone who couldn't stand the closepacked press of people if they wanted to try any of our Foods, then wending my way back. Some rather adorable IT guys from The Other Convention crashed our party. That's right: the party was crashed. Around 2, we kicked out the last dregs of folk from our room and ended the party. The conversation was easy, was interesting; there were a handful of people in a circle on the floor, but there was also much to do the next morning, and the room to clean up before we could sleep. Caitlyn & I giggled rather madly over the Ass Pillow, a cylindrical pillow some guy whose name I don't know had taken from our bed and then placed right under his ass before sitting in the middle of our floor. We put the Ass Pillow off to the side, shook the crumbs from out our covers, and slept the sleep of the righteously pleased.

Which is where I think this entry will be left, for now. But: it was great!

(Note: Mike has pictures from the party up right here. Go and see!)

Vagabonding: Nicole's House. New Paltz? July 7th and 8th.

I won't write overmuch about Nicole's house, because I already have a little; I enjoyed spending time with her, and I am so sorry that I don't live nearby. I'd constantly be turning up excuses to visit. "Look, Nicole. I found a coin. Where do you think it came from? What? This? This is not a penny. This is a story, so let's write one. I'd love to take Julian for a walk with you! Why, dinner you say? Some new tricksy drink fermenting in your cupboards you'd like me to try? And Dan, you've discovered what new song of hilarity? Okay, okay, I suppose we should examine this coin for a while -- did you hear about this new knitting pattern I discovered?" I admit: new knitting stitch is wistful thinking. Nicole is a cookery-witch and delicious seems to be yet another talent of hers.

And oh! Oh! Her bookshelves! Her folklore and mythology section, which I am actually envious of! We picked Alex up from the Poughkeepsie train station on the 8th, and chased the shadow of her luggage down one flight of stairs, across the platform, and up another flight of stairs. Dan is the one who found her, in a lobby area that reminded me of dinosaurs for reasons I'm not entirely sure of. Alex and I made off into the woods behind Nicole's house, which she told us were still unexplored, and found a branch twisted and braided into a gateway to another world. It thrust from the earth, then executed an arch and reached back into it. We also found mosquitoes. Many, many mosquitoes. So many mosquitoes. They didn't bite me much! But Alex was a most attractive delicacy, I believe. My faery socks protected my ankles and calves from deer ticks, so I do not feel ridiculous for bringing them, despite their Fallishness.

All of my vacations need to have a near-miss with a dead bird. In the woods, which were beginning to fall into gloam, I spied something pale in the leaf-rot. I peered close, and said something like, "That's a skull, isn't it." And it was! A hawk skull, which Alex balanced on a stick and was our companion for the rest of the wander. We'd determined that it would make an excellent gift for JoSelle, who would be at Readercon. When we emerged into Nicole's neighbor's backyard, birdskull held aloft and a big ol' friendly black dog bounding toward us, whilst a suspicious-eyed woman holding a toddler and a birdchested skinny man approached, it was an awkward thing to be holding. The rest of that night was spent in chatting, and also in working on Goblin Fruit with Amal. At one point, while we were trying to decide on the little headings for the segments we separate the Table of Contents into, I had an Alex at one side peering at my computer, a Nicole on the other side, peering at the computer, and a Dan overhead, also peering. The pressure? Totally on. They were all very helpful, and didn't mind how frequently I wandered away from the table and some really tasty guacamole and vegetarian chili. When I go home, I'm going to look at the stuff in our pantry and refrigerator, and sigh after delicious vegetarian chili.

I stayed up far later than everybody else did, wrangling coding. The next day, we were off to Readercon in a van of questionable durability.

New York City
July 6th and 7th.

I've never been to New York City before, and all I don't really feel as if I've been to New York City yet. I sort've threaded through it all swift and the time I spent was not about the city. It was about the friends, Rachy and Lisa. Now that I write this, I do realize that I am apologizing to New York City, and I'm apologizing it because of the way people talk of it. Truly, what I saw was massive; was even gorgeous, where it was smoke-charred and brick, where it was forestglade and steel, but I wanted people. Luckily, I got them!

The plan:
- Hie me via cab from JFK to Rachy's apartment.
- Hang out until I needed to go Lisa's at 6
- for dinner and discussion and a sneaky preview of Brother & Sister. & then,
- hie me via cab (probably) to Grand Central where I'd catch a train that left at 9:15 (8:30ish?) to
- Poughkeepsie (eerily, Devendra Banhart's Poughkeepsie kept coming up on itunes while these plans were being wrought) where I'd meet Nicole, Dan (then known as: Nicole's husband) and Julian (then known as Julian, also JV, also The Changeling) on the platform -- wait, no. Where I'd probably just meet Nicole's husband, who I'd not met, because it would be late, around 10:30ish at night depending, and then cue a fortyfive minute ride to
- Nicole's house! Where there would be some talking before I crashed, for want of sleep & Morpheus.

The plan was thwarted.

The plan was thwarted by myself -- specifically my lack of knowledge of travel times within NYC. Hanging out with Rach was really great, even though she constantly had a cigarette in hand because, as she explained, although she knew me -- we've known each other for a decade -- this was the first time that we've ever physically been in the same place. Rach had actually thought I was coming the day after I came, so there was some very insistent pressing on the strange and old building buzzer whilst a very nice, very charming Israeli man asked me how to park on the street (a pause, here, for laughter from those who know me and my lack of driving skillz), and then lent me his cellphone when I asked so that I could try and call my friend and get her to let me in. Alas, this segued into much interest in getting me -- and then Rachy, when she stumbled down all owl-fluffed in her pajamas -- to go out and hang around. But Rachy did come, and she swept me away from the stranger, and then around the corner to a very tiny, but also completely scrumptious hole-in-the-wall breakfast place with the best waffles I've ever had in my life. The bacon and omelette were also delicious, but the bacon -- and the waffles! O, o, O! Declaim!

We also hunted down sunscreen because I was burning, and sat by the river, and she pointed out the Statue of Liberty for me, which I took a picture of so I could tell my Mom that I did something very New York Tourist, and I marvelled at all the shirtless and bathing-suit clad New Yorkers just sprawled out like naked seals on a strip of grass by the river in the middle of the city. There were so many of them! And so naked! In the middle of the city!

Rach helped me hail a cab; I went to Lisa's where there was gift-giving, and also drooling over some of her gorgeous books, followed by some really delicious Greek food (for which I must thank her, as she treated me) that arrived very speedily. I confess: I was a tad -- not nervous, but almost nervous -- over meeting Lisa for dinner, since we've really only gleed over art via e-mail and met briefly at WisCon, but I was also very determined, just because I do so love what she's doing with film. She's also a great storyteller, and we spent most of the next few hours talking about Titania and The Medisaga (and maybe a little about how HOT her Oberon is) and horrible jobs and jobs that are not horrible. This is why, at thirty minutes before the train I needed to be on was to arrive, I glanced at the clock and said, "Um, how long does it take to get to Grand Central?"

It was determined that I probably wouldn't make it in time for the train I needed to get on and Lisa offered to let me spend the night if that was easier, an offer so generous I was really bowled over. I called Nicole's house and then-known-as-Nicole's-husband-Dan answered the phone. Sadly, they've been having phone troubles, and I could honestly barely hear his voice and was concerned he couldn't hear mine. In spite of this, we determined that it would probably be easier for me to journey to Poughkeepsie in the morning instead of arriving after midnight, and then Lisa and I happily chatted until far, far too late. Her cats eyed me with trepidition, and the next morning, woke up at the knife's edge of early for to catch me a cab and get to Grand Central. I found the train easily, but not the phone booth. Grand Central was really lovely, as I find train stations mostly are, and the mail slots were incredible: all oldtime-y and copper-y or brass-y. The train ride was uneventful, except for the fact that I broke my antlers by packing them stupidly. The landscape was so green and full of rivers; the train passed trees standing in still water and all bare of leaves.

And in Poughkeepsie, which I keep wishing to type Poughkipsie now that I know how it is pronounced (which I just typoed prounced, which must be a very strange kind of pounce indeed), there was a Nicole at last, and also a Dan, who quickly gained an identity of his own and finally at long last a little Julian who was blond as a scarecrow.

I am taking a moment to update this. Not with a dream, although I did have strange and complicated dreams last night; dreams that interlocked, that involved trains and contests that couldn't be won. I want to update this with a report of doings.

I'm in Nicole's house right now. I'm typing this from the well-appointed couch which is in the guest room; I can peek through the open door and see the gloss of a wooden floor that is as lovely as a medieval mirror, or some sun-streaked rapunzel's honey and walnut hair. I have no idea what two woods were used, or even if two woods were used at all; what I know is the dark and the blond complement, and it is beautiful, as is her entire home, and all that it naturally houses. No, wait: the mushroom tea/floating mold-city drink isn't really what you'd call beautiful. It is tasty, however.

There is a lot to do before tomorrow. Tomorrow will be Readercon, and also the launch of Goblin Fruit's summer issue, and also the launch of Goblin Fruit's very first ever printed matter, and also Goblin Fruit's first ever launch partay, in a hotel room that has yet to reveal its difficulties and stubbornnesses. I should be working on Goblin Fruit things, rather than sitting here, writing this. But the tea has made me sleepy, and so has the travel, and the spaces of the house are full of lullaby music for Nicole's kidlet, so I'm sinking into an easy daze. Honestly, I'm debating a nap.

It feels like an age since I've written a journal entry. I'll start with last night's dream, what I remember of it. The world was post-epic disaster, a manmade disaster. There were cities empty of everything except for strangle trees, moss and cows, but there were also cities just like cities today. Full of Fast Food junk, fusion restaurants (I may be hungry right now, so I may be projecting) and museums. Full of dangerous streets and apartment buildings, full of cars and people going somewhere, full of schools and churches. There were also mages, people who had the ability to scry somebody in a reflective surface or to pull a ghost out of an inanimate object. When the ghost was in an animate object, the mage was sh*t out of luck. The mage had inclinations, intuitions that others didn't; the really good mages could find new ways of travelling from point A to point B. They were pretty mysterious, but not in an "ooh, I wear cloaked robes" sort of way. Blah, blah. Things happened, events were invented. I fell in with a group of people on the move/on the run. Drat, I knew I shouldn't have taken a shower before writing this down; it was so clear as soon as I woke up, and it stayed clear until I washed it away. But I fell in with this group, and we were travelling, and many were the dangers on the road, yaddayadda. I think we were about five; maybe six. One of them looked like a cross between Simon Tam and the younger guy from House of Flying Daggers, and if such a man existed in reality, I would probably be hopelessly in crush; in the dream, I was concerned because he'd re-arranged his mind to be like tablets, and he'd lost some important information, like who he was and who he loved. Another of them looked vaguely like the lead singer of Paramore: tiny, skinny, long-monkey-limbed with an incorrigible smile and hair shaggy orange and red. Flame-hair. She was a mage, and a good friend. There was another guy, uber-responsible, short hair-cut, I can hardly remember his face; he was the one who made most of the decisions, when I wasn't the one who made most of the decisions. And someone else, and someone else.

We found this city, or rather we were rescued and brought to this city. I remember being all impressed at the city, because we'd been far-flung from actually-still-civilized cities for ages. Redhead chick revealed that she didn't plan on sticking around, that she just wanted to get to Los Angeles because she thought she'd fit in. Leaderguy was cynical and an asshole about this decision, and so was otherchick. Had he been planning to be a priest? Maybe. Point is: this city. They had electric gates that worked, which was impressive, and they were pretty damned fortified -- it was less a city than a university campus turned into a bastion of stability. We fixed their gates, and they let us in on the tragic history of the place, which was tragic indeed. Sometimes, the dead came back as machine-ghosts, and when they were machine-ghosts, all they wanted was to either do violence unto the living and drink their blood or remove all emotion from the living and make the living like they were, calm. The machine-ghosts had a goal, and that was to make people who could pass for living people. When these machine-ghosts came out, the whole 'city' went into lockdown. Rah, why am I having vague memories of pumpkin fields and scarecrows and redredred rags tied to treebranches like prayers or warnings or flags? Anyway, the 'city' was far from perfectly safe, but it was pretty sweet. Leaving the city in any real way was a problem, since most of the roads to actual civilization had bombed out at this point, but a few people still tried. There was grafitti, old warnings about caravans that might be coming at thus and thus point, and redhead chick (I may have been her for this scene) was thinking seriously about taking one.

But this image of this kid came to life, and delivered a message about how he was waiting for his trial and blahdeeblah hadn't meant to do whatever crime had been done -- or in fact hadn't done whatever crime had been done to get him imprisoned in X building. The dream became about how he actually had been forgotten about in the upheaval, so he was still in lockdown in a building nobody's cracked for years, and although I wondered how he could have survived, it was clear that he did, because the image-that-came-to-life was his school photo on file, projected over the image-banners, like floating advertisements, the city still had, and we figured out how he could manage to do that, but not get out of his prison. The dream became about how we were going to get him out, and it was complicated and full of suck; his story also somehow entwined with the leaving-for-Los-Angeles story, and when I finally got to him, he looked a lot older, a lot more broken. Not the smarmy debate club president who'd been framed for whatever in his picture, and maybe he wasn't all there, either. Oh, and also, it turned out he'd been infected by the machine ghosts. Him, and this other girl named Lolli, who was relevant to his particular story in some way I no longer remember. The smell of nailpolish remover brought out their violentviolentviolent sides and then, if there was a lot of it, acted as a sedative -- like the violence reached a point at which it could only collapse. I had the joy of talking to this poor guy about his transformation and how we'd try to figure out something and how he couldn't go out yet because we needed to make sure his latent machine-ghost tendencies wouldn't take control again and make him take out the city's security and/or any people he ran across.

The talk went about as well as you could expect, and after I left, he found his own way out and approached the ... Board? The president's board? This board that had power and was the remnant of the folk who'd consigned him to that quarantined building then forgotten about him, and he was ready to be all dazzlingly argumentative, to clear his case once and for all, the case that nobody cared about, but then somebody sat in "his" seat. There was a flashback, from his point-of-view. Then he went machine-ghost, and the rest of the dream was about re-containment. Then there was a breach in the city's defenses, and the bus that was supposed to go to Los Angeles was full of bones, was found in a ditch on the road outofthere, annnnnd whilst in the midst of dealing with the crisis --

Hawaii? Yes, Hawaii was starting to be mentioned in the dream as a safe haven

-- I woke up.

I hate Los Angeles Unified School District. I hate California. I hate Californians. I need to leave. I hate like leaves hate in the fall. I feel dry, tindery and cold. I am so worried and so absolutely furious.

I say this all the time, and often ridiculously. But I mean it. I will never be a teacher. Never.