I love the way that the light before the sun is fully up lies to us. The bathroom is currently two different colors, thanks to being midway through being painted; the walls are blue (the old color) and yellow (the new), but when I went in there after waking up, there was the lying light that made everything seem the same shade of blue. You might have thought that it was daylight already, but apparently not. Not all of the spectrum had woken up yet.
February 21
As with all the best dreams, the details are fading already, but I can remember that this one featured moments where I was literally seeing things from someone else’s perspective — namely, a would-be murderer whose attempt was thwarted by his potential victim’s wife having an apparent heart attack (She was okay, as it turned out) — as well as a primary narrative where I was part of a group investigating said would-be murderer along with Penn Jilette, of all people.
The end of the dream saw us all sit down to have a celebratory meal from a food truck as a job well done, and then suddenly we were surrounded by a bunch of kids getting out from a local school. That’s all I remember, frustratingly. I know there’s so much more.
The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back.
Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye (via liquidnight)
LIFE GOAL, RIGHT THERE.
(via postcardsfromspace)
I want to know if the goal is to give or receive a look like that.
February 20
We are living in a world where “Aquaman” can be a trending term on Twitter when I get up in the morning, and in which I can write 6,100 words for publication today alone. (There were also words written for emails and for tweets and for notes to myself for the future even though none of those were “WHY DID YOU CHOOSE THIS LIFE?” surprisingly, but I won’t count them because I don’t want to go back and count them as well.) It’s one of those days when you just end up thinking What a world.
February 19
No time for love, Doctor Jones. Okay, that’s not entirely true; although I have a heavy workload today, I’m entirely distracted by thoughts of fandom, if not love: Blur has announced a new album — the band’s first since 2003’s Think Tank — out in a couple of months, and I’m ridiculously excited. Part of me is positive that such enthusiasm is a mistake, because how many bands come back after 12 year breaks with great stuff, really? Then I remember how much I loved Damon Albarn’s Everyday Robots album last year, or 2013’s “Under the Westway” single, and my excitement carries me away again. Please don’t suck, new Blur album. I’m not sure I could take that.
February 18
I wouldn’t call my Comic-Con dream from last night a stress dream, exactly — it wasn’t exactly stressful, for the one thing — but it was an odd one; the key fact of it seemed to be that I had apparently moved in to a hotel room during the show and was apparently living there, getting mail delivered and essentially treating it as if it was my home and not somewhere I’d be staying for a handful of days at the most.
The details of the dream are hazy at best; I remember Rachel Edidin being there, and the two of us talking about the fact that neither of us had really gotten to see any comic stuff just yet (So, just like any comic-con I’ve worked, then). I remember, oddly, the fact that I’d been given a boxset of HBO’s The Wire and feeling as if I should give it to a friend who hasn’t seen the show. And, more than anything, I remember the feeling that always comes up at these shows, that life there is a bubble that feels at once entirely temporary and utterly all-encompassing and eternal. Was there once another world where I lived? Was it better than this one?
The comedy of the matter is, I don’t even think I’m going to Comic-Con this year, and yet I had this dream regardless.
