> tapioca world tour

Other than getting my teeth fixed, the best investment I’ve ever made is joining Boston Sport Boxing Club. D. and I completed our first personal training session the other night, which lasted over two and a half hours and has had me limping for two days. Pain before beauty, pain is beauty, what’s the expression? Whatever. Just as long as I can punch a solid hole through a solid wall without shattering all the bones in my hand, I’m happy.

In other news,

I keep having nightmares about octopus. The moral of that story is never watch your friend eat baby octopus — whole — at a sushi bar, or anywhere else for that matter. Last night’s dream was about a girl at a pet shop who took care of this one little octopus and loved it, but I bought it off her, then I didn’t take care of it, then it stung me and crawled on me, then it became a giant spider and the girl picked it up. I returned it to her, told her to keep it and love it because I couldn’t, I didn’t want it after all, it was a scary aggressive octopus for Pete’s sake. [Cue Zak Smith’s octopus drawing! Now!]

In self-oriented audio-visual news,
I still can’t think of a valid film idea, and my editor doesn’t want to do the 48-hr film project again, despite our win last year. I’m crying on the inside. On the outside, I’m just freezing.

Of, pertaining to, or suggestive of dreams; dreamy.

Last night I had a strange strange dream. It didn’t make enough sense for me to summarize it fully, but I’ll say this much:

There was a party at a house. I was in mud in a stream outside in the darkness, away from the house. I dropped my watch and tried to find it in the mud. There was an ominous feeling, as if if I stayed there too long someone might come and snatch me. Inside, the party waned. People fell asleep. Ry was there, and it was evident he was dying. He kept making jokes even as he lay on a table, immobile, and then the nighttime table became the morning sea, then back into a table. Suddenly a bunch of us were playing a game on paper where we had to guess/predict what shapes should come next in a sequence (clam, sandwich, star…). I was appalled that we were sitting there, letting Ry die, but he was making jokes even still and playing the game with us. I tried to keep my eyes open, watching him, as long as possible. The next morning, everyone woke up and left Ry dead on the table. “He’s got fish swimming around his head,” someone said. This didn’t seem such an illogical notion. I finally looked up when everyone was gone, only to find Ry staring at me, blinking calmly. “You’re not dead!” I screamed. “You’re still alive!” He didn’t say anything, but he smiled.

Weird.

Last night I had a repeat of a dream I’d had some months ago.

I dreampt I was back in Newburyport. It was 1991 again and I had to babysit for A. and W. at 5p. But I wasn’t 13 anymore — I was 27, as if I’d gone back in time, and the kids were 5 and 7 again. I was hiding in the bushes outside the house, looking up at A. and W., who had climbed a tree. I wasn’t sure if I should let them see me. I knew they’d recognize me, and recognize the fact that I was not the actual me they knew, but the me from the future. I heard their mom inside; she was in a bad mood, still dealing with the separation from her husband. I caught W.’s eye in the tree and I knew she knew who I was. I got up and walked into the house, I think I talked to their mom first but I forget what was said.

Then I talked to the kids. I explained that lots of things were going to happen in the next fourteen years — that their lives would be filled with some really hard times, but things would always get better. I thought of their parents’ divorce, their mom’s next boyfriend, their breakup, then her future husband. I thought of A.’s drunk driving in high school, his car accident after that, his academic trouble in college, his best friend’s impending suicide. I started to cry when I thought of this last one. I couldn’t tell them all of this, but I think somehow they knew I was trying to warn them of something, and in fact I might have been communicating all of this silently. We were supposed to go to their soccer game at the park, and I knew I’d see Jeremy there — A.’s wonderful, gorgeous and brilliant friend who, at 19, would become too sad to stay alive. Then I thought of his wonderful little sister, who would trade her best-friendship with W. for popularity in high school until they virtually became strangers. I thought of how she would look at her brother’s funeral, her face buried in her knees. Now we were all crying. It was terrible.

Why did I have to come back and warn them about the future? I just felt there was a need to tell them that there would always be hard times ahead, but they’d get through them and be fine. That’s what happens to all of us. That’s what life is.

The only really cool part was the sensory aspect of the dream — I could see and feel everything as if it really were 1991 again. W.’s short white-blond hair, how small she was then; her brother’s tendency to really cry when he got angry and stop speaking when he got sad; the way the sidewalk cracked on Orange Street; the bushes in front of their old house; even the tiny white pebbles from the fishbowl which we threw onto their gravel driveway when the fish died — those white pebbles stayed there for years. In the dream I noticed them again, checking to make sure they were still there, spread out in a small circle, and feeling relieved that some omens still exist, that my memory isn’t fictional: that we really lived there then, that we really looked like that and ran around and played in the street, not thinking about such trifles as the future, so mundane and unknown and irrelevant.

It just kind of bothers me that I’ve had nearly the same dream twice. Makes me want to scoop up W., now 19, and together go visit her brother in Vermont. I don’t know why.

I slept straight from 6.30p last night to 8a this morning. That’s nearly 14 hours. I decided to do it ahead of time — I could feel the exhaustion burning in the back of my throat. And sometimes, in lieu of a vacation or a weekend away, this is all I can do to escape.

Needless to say, I had a long, weird and extended dream. Let me tell you about it:

I died, somehow. Mom died too, and J., and N., and other N., and other friends, and lots more Americans I didn’t know. We found ourselves in a half-world between life and death, where we were cognizant of having bodies but also cognizant of no longer living in the human world. We were in an institution of some sort. It was controlled by Iraqis; I guess they’d won the war, and a lot more than that. We had to file into a large hall, do some manual labor, like jail, and wait around talking. One day I realized some people were disappearing. It was because their purgatorial time was over, and they’d fizz out into Actual Death. I realized this jail-like institution full of other just-dead friends was like an orphanage for lost souls or something [this is all despite the fact that I don’t believe in any of this: multiple souls, heaven or hell, purgatory, even death] — but anyway —

Three girls tried to escape. They failed, and were executed. That’s when I understood everything was political. We were POWs, but half-dead POWs. While marching single file into a room, I noticed N. across the way. She had cut all her hair off. “That’s smart,” I thought. “She did that so she wouldn’t have to worry about it getting long and out of control.” [Insert footnote here about my previously recurring dreams regarding hair growing uncontrollably and me trying to chop it off.] Then I realized my hair was long and I hadn’t brushed it in longer than I could remember. Also about that time, I realized Mom was gone. She had fizzled out to the realm of Actual Death, and I started to get really scared. I didn’t want to be in a POW purgatorial deathcamp, but I didn’t want to be alone in the universe, either.

Our guards started getting stricter. I didn’t like how there was political tension, or that Iraqi-US relations were worse than ever. A female guard tried to herald me down a stairwell with a group of others, but I was scared. I grabbed a chocolate bon-bon with strawberry cream (from where?) and handed it to her as a gift. She smiled, thanked me, took the chocolate, and let me go. I ran and hid. Suddenly it was night. I was at a gated swimming pool, hiding in the shadows behind lawn chairs. I could see male guards up above, on the roof with guns.

That’s about all I remember, but the main feeling was an incredible loneliness, or a fear of it. Not of the “today I’m bored and lonely” variety, but in the larger cosmic sense of being alone. Even in the dream, I said to myself: “Wake up! You’re scared of death and you won’t even admit it. I’m going to have to deal with this when I come out of this dream…”

I feel like I’ve gotten stuck in an existential void and the only way out is through metaphysical action. Word.

Found last night:
“LOST FRIEND: PHIL M.
Saw you last weekend on Somerville Ave. We should totally hang out. Call me. Anna M.”

Dear Anna M.,

I just wanted to publically acknowledge and applaud your unabashed and creative attempt to reconnect with someone without using the internet. Seriously, posting a flyer on Somerville Ave.? That takes balls. Most ladies don’t have balls. Not like yours, anyway. I wish more women would take the bull by the horns like this. If “Phil” doesn’t call you, let me set you up with other guys who will value your assertiveness.

Sincerely,
A. in Porter

********And in completely unrelated news,

I had a dream last night that Bush appointed the chic who works at my favorite coffeeshop to be the new Supreme Court Justice. “Wow,” I thought. “That’s a progressive and interesting move — she’s a woman, a Democrat, and gay. The tides must really be turning in the administration!”

And then I woke up and heard about John Roberts. I guess one can dream, and that’s it.

Been listening to Modest Mouse’s “Gravity rides everything” and Mana’s “No voy a ser tu esclavo” on repeat like a shamelessly lame eighth grade girl. Had an anxiety dream about gender roles in video production last night. I fought off comments from male crew members that I should be a makeup artist, or an actress, or something less technical. “No!” I yelled. “I wanna shoot! I’m gonna shoot video!” Right, I don’t have any hangups about this topic or anything…

Last night we ate dinner at this place called the Liberty Bar. Part of its appeal is that it’s an old house that’s leaning sideways, literally about to fall over. The food was amazing, and the waiter was funny. Afterwards we drove around downtown San Antonio and J. showed me the church where she’s to be married in a few months. She’s 25 with a good job and a great guy and a smart plan, a very pretty engagement ring and alot of other mid-20s friends in Texas who are engaged. Made me think about how urban, northeastern life is so different, at least in terms of advocating individualism, more personal agendas, less traditionally domestic expectations for life. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s just different — way different — from Texas, where the highways are wide and the air conditioning is always on and people much younger than me are buying houses and having children. Whoa! I feel an urge to run away to Europe coming on…

It was a weird dream night last night: first, J. woke up at 3a from a scary dream screaming, “Oh God no! Get away! Ahhhhh!” which, por supuesto, was a bit terrifying. I busted into her room to fight off the bad guys, but they were only in her head.

Then I went to sleep and dreampt that there was this group of people I either worked with or went to university with, and there was a comic book that was hugely popular, the text of which was based on pieces of fictional dialogue that had been submitted by children to narrate the story. Anyway, the story told of a vortex, or another world — much like Narnia — and I for some reason had acquired a copy of the draft of the next book, which I brought to a pool and showed all my coworkers. As they were eagerly reading it, someone tattoo’d things on either of my arms. I didn’t really realize this was happening until it was over: they’d tatto’d a vented window on one upper arm and a door on the other. “You have to have a way to get in as well as get out,” was the explanation when I asked. They were referring to the other world in the story. I looked in the mirror and freaked out because the tattoos were large and not that well done, and I looked like a huge punk with them. “How can I ever be taken seriously as a professional now?” I thought. “I already look 14, I already have a nosering and wear weird clothes — now with this ink all over me I’m really doomed.”

And then I slept past noon and finally woke up.
Had a long conversation late last night with a dude I haven’t met. We compared notes on Neruda and politics. It was refreshing.

And now it’s time to eat a yogurt parfait and swim in the GORGEOUS, HUGE POOL in J.’s apartment complex, then in a few hours work out in the GORGEOUS, HUGE GYM that’s also in J.’s apartment complex. Aint got much to complain about, yeehaw.

I had this awful dream last night inspired by the insect-biting incident a few weeks ago. I dreampt I went to A.’s house in the morning, she had just had a big party and people were still awake and walking around. JJ from Brooklyn was there, too. I was talking to him about how I was going to move in a few days later. When A. left the room, he started complaining about these giant welt-like bites on his legs. “Ew!” I said. “Where did you get those?” “Here,” he said. “I mean, everybody gets bitten in this apartment. I think it’s the cat’s fleas or, I dunno, just something that bites. Ask A. about it.”

A. came back in the room. I confronted her about the biting insects. She finally relented, admitted it was a problem and there was nothing she could do to get rid of them. “Listen,” I told her. “If there’s one thing I absolutely CANNOT live with, it’s sleeping in a place with any type of bugs, especially bugs that bite.” “Well, I’m sorry,” she said. And added a few minutes later: “Actually I’ve decided I just want to live alone. I don’t even want a roommate. I’m sorry.” Damn, I thought. What now? I phoned Ryan really quickly to see if he still had a room available for me. He wasn’t there so I left a message, crossing my fingers. I was homeless again.

And THEN….
I went outside and tried walking down the street to my office, when suddenly the sky went dark and cloudy and, looking up, I could see the long spinning tube of a tornado coming down towards Cambridge. “Oh my God!” In an instant, the air became opaque with greyness and mist; I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, or anything in front of my face for that matter. People began running into buildings and basements. I thought no one was left on the street so I started yelling — “HEEEEELP!”

Finally, I felt a hand on my shoulder through the greyness. I heard a guy’s voice. The person led the way in front of me, and I followed, or maybe I led the way and he followed. I just remember waving my arms like a walking stick so I wouldn’t crash into anyone.

And then, just like that, just when the winds had kicked up and I thought for sure we’d be swallowed alive, the clouds broke and the sun came out. It all happened instantly. There was Prospect Street, as if nothing had happened at all. I don’t remember what happened to the guy. It’s possible I looked up to discover he was Brent, my ex-boyfriend of 2002-3, and gasped; or it’s possible the guy was just gone. It was a dream, my recollections are vague and hazy. I just remember thinking: “My God, what just happened? Did that really happen? Which is the reality?”

It’s kind of like the Steve Tannen song I’ve had stuck in my head for two days: “You know what? Just forget it/ Name something and I regret it/ The sun sets like surrender/ And I guess I misremember that whole time…

It was the sweetest fever dream/ You probably don’t know what I mean…”

The endless search for the perfect flat continues. It continues tomorrow, and then some. But living at Ry’s would be just as good. I’m perpetually undecided when it comes to big decisions. And I am soooooo tired, so many hours in an office, more hours with small children, but things are good. We had an excellent film meeting tonight, in my humble opinion. I’m so thrilled to be working with such nice professional people.

G. and I roamed the mall after our meeting, 2004-style and as capitalist as we’ve always been. Hanging out with him reminds me that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to hang out with him, then I remember that I love hanging out with him, at which point something in my gut bursts a little. Not a bad bursting, just quiet, but worth acknowleging. Life is so long… I forget that sometimes.

* * * On Edit * * *

I had a dream last night about The Future. I flew to Germany for a site visit to Uni Lubeck to see if its New Media grad program was actually good — except it wasn’t Germany, it was Costa Rica — except I was on the Mediterranean Sea… Anyway, it was supposed to just be a visit, but I ended up starting to take classes…they had an awesome G5 studio in a house along a dirt road which very much resembled Fairlee, Vermont in the summer in the rain. I moved into a house with two other girls. The house was owned and inhabited by a middle-aged blind man. It was in kind of crappy condition but after a few days I realized I liked him and I liked the place — he had established a complex system of ringing bells in different keys to let him know where things were, or what they were.

Suddenly I realized, wait a minute, I’ve started the semester and I’ve moved in but I’m just supposed to be on vacation. My office is waiting for me to return. Smith College was waiting too, since apparently there was some weird Smith connection. My two roommates started convincing me to stay. “But I’ve only brought clothes for one week!” I said. “Who cares!” they said. “It’s hot every day, you don’t need to wear much. And you can get more of your stuff when you go home for Christmas.” Then I received a letter that my room at Smith (I had a room at Smith?) was going to be cleared out because I wasn’t returning. I managed to break into a Costa Rican outdoor buffet alum event and convince a Smith Admissions Associate please not to trash all my stuff. But I didn’t promise to return to the States anytime soon. I didn’t even care about my job in Boston. I was just so overwhelmed with relief that, unlike England, I liked this new place and this program and its people and its sunny days and its sea…

If this is a sign I’ll soon be doing web design in a hooked-up G5 studio overlooking the Mediterranean for 13 months, sign me right up.

Last night, while my leg was being ruthlessly attacked by spiders (Lord, I hope they were just spiders), I had a dream that I was back in high school. Actually it was college, but structured like high school where you had all your required subjects, etc., but I was living at Smith again with Val, my old roommate. The semester was almost over and I was enjoying school well enough, taking it easy, you know. Suddenly, as finals neared, I had a realization: “Val!” I said. “I haven’t been going to any of my regular classes — English, History, Science, Math…I showed up the first week but then, I dunno, they weren’t interesting and I guess I just forgot about them. I’ve only been going to art and music and dance. Do you think they’ll notice?”

“Yes, fool,” Val said. “They’ll probably fail you.”

I had a moment of anxiety, wondering what I could possibly do to remedy the situation, if I could make up the work or just starting showing up in classes, pretending like I’d always been there. Then I relaxed and realized, hey, it’s just school and school is dumb. I’ll just fail and deal with it. It wasn’t a very happy feeling, but it allowed me to go on with my life.

I wonder what kind of metaphor this is supposed to represent in my conscious existence. Maybe it’s just a reminder that I hate being forced to do anything — besides art.

In other news,
I just bleached the toilet and disinfected the surface around my lofted bed [see spider reference above]. I also washed all my sheets [ibid.] and now I can smell the chemicals, killing every good and bad living thing in the air….and it smells fantastic. I can’t wait to get the f out of this dirty flat.

(This time, I think the dream was caused by the fact that I was emailing with P. all day and then J. called just before I went to bed and I could hear her two puppies in the background.)

It was Mitzi again, my old hound from 1990, on the beach with me as well as P. from England. We were sitting in the sand, watching the waves come in, stronger and stronger. [Enter tsunami relief work fogging my subconscious.] Mitzi was barking at the approaching waters. I kept fearing either P. or I would be swallowed by a wave and dragged out to sea. That never happened, but I was positive at any moment it would…and then I woke up.

Definitely have been having some crazy dreams lately, definitely have intended to write about them, but of course, now it’s all a blur. I barely remember anything — except running around with my old dog Mitzi, and possibly Ryan too. We were in a water park. There were waterslides and a crappy restaurant on the premises. My dog was barking, jumping up and down, following me. I think I ate a hot dog, even though I don’t like hot dogs.

I remembered this dream only yesterday, at J.’s house in Beverly, upon seeing CHUNK, their household hound who looks quite a bit like Mitzi and also jumped all over me.

I feel dumb about the Middlesex Lounge, by the way — all my stupid talk about paying a reciprocal friendship visit to G. while spinning the other night — I’m so forgetful sometimes. I forgot he was shooting a 24-hour reality TV pilot that I was actually invited to PA on. So, I take back all that smack I talked, and now I feel justifiably foolish for walking alone at 1am to a club where G. was obviously not in residence. Oh well. It happens. That’s just what I get for not paying attention.

In other news, I finished shooting interviews with J. & J. and M. and now, while the boys travel the south and everywhere else for 5 entire weeks, I’ll at least have a project to work on. I will finish that doc by April or die trying.

Mentally preparing my 5-year plan again. Marcus wrote from Vientiane, Laos where he’s hiking the entire Ho Chi Minh Trail with his pal N. They’re filming people along the way, photographing, planning to get a grant and publish a book about the experience after it ends in 6-or-so months. And guess who might be editing the endless hours of video footage? That’s right — moi. I really hope I get the opportunity. Would be excellent.

Had a meeting with D. last night regarding video projects…he wants to shoot a quick film in April or May on Chinatown. I’m down if my sound guys are. It’s nice to have projects in the works, you know? I don’t even care if i go to art school now.

And speaking of 5-year plans, having two barely-functioning toilets, a porch roof that will cave in if I hang up my boxing heavy bag, a busted mailbox and several electrical outlets that blew last night got me thinking about my living arrangements…which got me thinking about changing cities, or not… I’ve no definitive plans yet, other than to bait-and-switch come summer. I’d like to live alone, almost regardless of cost. But it’d be so much cheaper to live alone in Center City, Phila. But there’s fewer media jobs there. Thinking of eventually shacking up with S. from work (not like that, sicko), which would also be fun, in a responsible, anally-clean professional women kind of way. Time will tell.

Meanwhile my contemplations have inspired more dreams. Last night I dreampt I was in my kitchen when I discovered roaches. Jumping roaches. Every time you’d try to squish one, it’d jump up and fly several feet away, and then another would appear. Really gross dream. I confronted my roommate and said, “You said there were no roaches here!” She kind of winced and said, “Um, well there haven’t been any for a while…” This is just another situational anxiety dream. I’d love to figure out a conclusive, directional life plan and stick to it — even just for the next 5 years. Honestly, having a plan I think would solve everything. That, and living completely alone.

In the ever articulate words of M., bored as pie in NL:
“even though i hate people i could do with having some of them around.”

Another prophetic dream. Again it involved an object in the house of the kids I babysit: I dreampt I was in a store, looking to buy a present for someone. Then I saw a wooden cup-like thing with holes in the top and some green stuff coming out of it in little felt bags. It took me a minute to realize this was catnip, then I got really excited because I realized I needed to buy the thing as a present for some [unspecified] feline friend.

I was telling this dream to I. tonight, the 8-yr-old, while babysitting, and she suddenly began yelling, “Oh! Oh! Yes, I know! That’s exactly the toy we have for Bella [cat].” I got quite freaked out at that point. “No,” I said, “you don’t understand, this was a DREAM. It was made up in my head while I was sleeping.” “But,” she argued back, “we OWN that toy. We have that exact thing…” and then she proceeded to describe exactly what was in my dream.

Now I know what you’re thinking: I probably saw the catnip toy a bunch of times in their house, never really took note of it but processed it on some deep, subconscious level. Ditto for the glow-in-the-dark jellyfish.

Well you’re wrong!! I swear, I’ve never seen the catnip toy before, and I’ve definitely never seen the glow-in-the-dark jellyfish before dreaming about it. Life is funny, you know? How come I can foresee the appearance of insignificant toys in someone else’s house, but I can’t predict important things like a natural disaster or a non-violent method of regime change in Washington, or a chance meeting with a phat producer?

It’s late and it’s time to retire, as my grandparents would say before bed. Salud.

I had another dream about my brother last night. Except in the dream it wasn’t actually my brother; it was the 11-year-old neighbor boy from the movie “Happiness”, but he was playing Patrick in the dream. Anyway.

We were on a school bus, a trip. My father had come with my brother. My mother was there too. There were other people, adults and kids. It was like summer camp. My father was watching me, careful that I did not come up and tell my brother who I was. But then the dream skipped ahead; we were in a cabin-style bathroom. Patrick and I were standing next to each other, brushing our teeth. He looked in the mirror, mentioned something about how annoyingly fair his skin was. I said “Yeah, I know exactly. I have the same skin.” Then he looked at me sideways in the mirror, noticing for the first time our obvious resemblence. I knew I should say something at that point, tell him who I was, but, I don’t know, I think I panicked, then woke up.

And that was it.

JWL & I are doing a video project on the public yet anonymously written word. Graffiti counts. This shot is from the upstairs bathroom at The Living Room in the East Village…

I had a dream last night. I dreampt I went back to Manchester after an epiphany that England wasn’t so bad after all and Manch was worth it so long as I had my roommates and didn’t have to go to school.

When I arrived it was during a big party, and Peter’s girlfriend was visiting (as in reality she will be, presently) from Peru. In the dream it was a different house, like an open Caribbean summer house. The rooms seemed to flow into one another, and there was a sunny, very un-British breeze wafting through the place. Shiva was laughing in another room. I came through the front door and tried to present myself majestically to everyone. The first person I saw was Peter and his girlfriend. They were in bed, waking up from a nap. He looked really confused and concerned. He got up and let me in, still with a serious expression on his face. The other roommates didn’t react much, as if my return was nothing unexpected. Then it occured to me that I’d been replaced there and I’d have to wait for Ben to move back to France in Feb before I could move into my old room. There were other parts of the dream but I’m leaving those out on purpose.

As the night progressed, though, and everyone was quite out of it, I had this strange feeling like I was avoiding life, like I was only back in England to escape things, and maybe it wasn’t worth it to stay. It was a weird, almost psychadelic scene, in the midst of which I struggled to evaluate my life & career goals, as usual. What an annoyingly recurring freakin scene. I eventually decided to go back to the States, but I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d decided that.

I think what this all means is that my UK adventure is slowing fading into a dream. Even in the real dream, I struggled to figure out how long I had been in Manch and how long I had been back in Boston. I couldn’t for the life of me determine the actual amount of time. It seemed like only a few days had passed….

It’s a nice day, an odd week. My mailbox key snapped in half as I was turning it in the lock yesterday. I got Xmas cards from several family friends and some other pals, many with photos inside, which was nice. So many friends have kids now. It’s just something to take note of, to tilt the head at.

When I return from Venezuela in winter of 2010 with my adopted baby son for the US release of my second film, with whom will I spend the holidays?

I don’t know, but I certainly do overpack. I always pack in preparation for something — the worst: a national emergency, a coastal power outage, or a cathartic moment that changes me, inabling me to return to where I’ve come from….

So I pack everything I might possibly need: discman, journal, planner, extra batteries, “Breaking Out of Beginner’s Spanish”, a sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, an extra pair of jeans — in case I spill coffee, yet again, on the pants I’m wearing — underwear, always an extra pair, ditto for socks, toiletries, razor, deodorant, expensive french perfume, several kinds of lip moisterizers, wallet, keys, unmbrella, phone + charger….

I wrote holiday cards tonight. You have to call them “holiday cards” these days, otherwise you’re considered culturally insensitive. I’d say “Christmas cards” but my recipient list includes five Jews, several agnostics and a few people who don’t celebrate anything national or commercial. So, it’s “holiday” then. Happy Holidays and Happy New Year, etc etc. Many happy returns.

What are returns? Returns on investments?

> Many happy things. Much happiness. A happy future. A happy present. Notice how everyone always wishes eachother happiness for the future, as if otherwise we’re all doomed to remain in an apathetic collective depression. Nay! No we aren’t and I’ll not have it! I won’t!

I had a dream that my pal Mary Iwata had her baby. She was due yesterday, in the Netherlands. I mean, if she were still in the US she’d be due the same day, I’m just saying she’s now living in the Netherlands. So I had this dream where she was in labor all night long and was getting pretty annoyed by it, and finally when she had the baby, we were all shocked to see it was a girl, not the boy we’d all predicted. I woke up feeling extreme anxiety over the whole thing, her discomfort, the anticipation…I was really agitated for a while, wanted to call across the ocean and check in. I was convinced she’d gone into labor. I guess we’ll just wait for an email and see if I’m right.

PS: I love my pals. I sent out an email to NYC people asking for a place to crash in the very near future, and everyone responded immediately in the positive. Crazy. The Joes and their film ideas are awesome, and Ryan’s great, great great, and England friends are so cool (international videoconferencing is even cooler), George is even in touch, and the intellectual Cambridge kids I babysit — thanks to my tutorials in underground hip hop culture — have actually begun writing me raps. WORD!

It’s freaking freezing out, but I’ve really nothing to complain about. So I won’t.

PPS: If you haven’t checked out Baghdad Burning on the sidebar (thanks Joe for linking to it first), please do. Here’s an excerpt from this Iraqi girl’s blog:

People are wondering how America and gang (i.e. Iyad Allawi, etc.) are going to implement democracy
in all of this chaos when they can’t seem to get the gasoline flowing in a country that virtually swims in oil.
There’s a rumor that this gasoline crisis has been concocted on purpose in order to keep a minimum of cars
on the streets. Others claim that this whole situation is a form of collective punishment because things are
really out of control in so many areas in Baghdad- especially the suburbs. The third theory is that this being
done purposely so that the Iraq government can amazingly bring the electricity, gasoline, kerosene and
cooking gas back in January before the elections and make themselves look like heroes.

We’re also watching the election lists closely. Most people I’ve talked to aren’t going to go to elections.
It’s simply too dangerous and there’s a sense that nothing is going to be achieved anyway. The lists are
more or less composed of people affiliated with the very same political parties whose leaders rode in on
American tanks. Then you have a handful of tribal sheikhs. Yes- tribal sheikhs. Our country is going to
be led by members of religious parties and tribal sheikhs- can anyone say Afghanistan? What’s even more
irritating is that election lists have to be checked and confirmed by none other than Sistani!! Sistani- the
Iranian religious cleric. So basically, this war helped us make a transition from a secular country being run
by a dictator to a chaotic country being run by a group of religious clerics. Now, can anyone say ‘theocracy
in sheeps clothing’?