English people eat more broccoli

[bironic]

The second cancellation this week occurred yesterday when my mother remembered she had back to school night, and I chose to go home instead of hanging around her high school meeting bleary colleagues and angry parents. That meant there was time to finish "Victor's Solo" – inasmuch as it can be considered finished when the piece gets interrupted in the movie so it has no resolution – some of the chords still don't sound right, but it's enough until the sheet music gets published – and catch the end of the Yankee game. Two words, New Yorkers: GO SOX. 

 

Towards the end of the evening I started to feel strangely restless – the kind of discomfort where your clothes irritate, you don't want to sit or stand, you don't really want to be in your skin. So I went to bed, but slept lightly and kept waking up. I blame this, and catilinarian's announcement that she'll be attending Connotations this weekend, for what I dreamt.

 

It started out (ab)normally enough: sitting at a dining room table, watching an Englishman eat long hunks of cooked broccoli and coming to understand that they derive much more nourishment from the vegetable because they eat more of it in a serving than Americans do. (This bit is actually the Trader Joe's catalog's fault.)

 

Then I was at a computer (surprise!) excerpting text from a poem and preparing to write a review of it, or of a movie using the poem in the criticism. There was a button in the text editing program labeled "Send to NYTimes," as though you could have your review published just by clicking it, which I thought was cool.

 

It might have been Byron's poem I was excerpting, or else he had written a review of the same thing, because then there was a video screen with Byron, played in this dream by Stuart "Lestat/Kolchak" Townsend (TV Guide's fault), and it made sense. He was sitting on a beige couch with his left arm around two women and his right arm, we assume, around two more – the picture was cut off at his shoulder so we couldn't see who was sitting on that side. He was talking to the camera directly and thus to the audience, making coy comments and giving the ladies a squeeze. He might have winked. I can't remember what he said exactly.

 

The important part is that when the camera panned over, it turned out that the person immediately on his right was a man, not a woman, who was facing him and who had, if possible, an even more flirtatious manner. Byron said something and leaned closer – the women were gone by this point – and the man murmured, "Sorcerer," as a teasing nickname, and then they started kissing. Now you must understand that this was "sorcerer" pronounced in the best of British accents, as Sebastian Roché once did on a TV special about "Roar":  SOH-sirruh. Very sexy.

 

(This was all before the part where David Thewlis was performing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" or some pastoral Shakespeare play with a girl on an outdoor stage somewhere off the Palisades or near the G.W. Bridge, even though he looked more like Nigel Whatsname who played Bernard in Ellen's recent production of "Arcadia." He had the typical goofy expression on his face and he was wearing a purple silk tunic, belted, that ended just past his hips, and crème silk shorts that didn't cover much more, so there was a fair amount of hairy thigh showing. It also became patently clear that he couldn't dance very well – he kept bending forward when making high kicks, and his rhythm was off.)

 

Lest this become a journal where most entries revolve around my bizarre unconscious adventures, reality returneth. Wednesday synn found out she had a free evening so there was much rejoicing in the form of sushi, ice cream, new digital camera, accidental alienation of her mother, and viewing of the much-put-off I Heart Huckabees, which delay, as it turns out, was entirely justified. I maintain that a large portion of the enjoyment of that film comes from saying "Huckabees."

 

My not-so-little sister is coming home after her LSAT on Saturday and staying for the week. Also the weather grows ever crisper and it's now socially acceptable to wear sweaters outside as well as in the icebox otherwise known as our office. Soon it will be colored leaves, apple picking, Halloween, harvest moon time. Therefore I am joyous.

Comments

[catilinarian.livejournal.com]

Yay for slashy Byron dreams! I take full responsibility and I'm not even sorry. So there. :P

I'll update my LJ with details of Connotations soon (perhaps somewhat curtailed after the realisation that some of the people I met there are now following my blog!). I did send you a letter about the con this weekend, but I realise now I forgot to write "Air Mail" on it. Sorry! Think of me fondly when it finally reaches you by boat in twenty years!