Month: April 2010
well earning the nickname “rock dancer”
A klipspringer at the San Diego Zoo, January 2010
the song of decaying carbon
I’ve been dreaming about owning a house lately. Not as in thinking about occasionally, but in the dead of the night when I’m unconscious sort of way. It’s a small house, this nonexistent place, two floors, with a bedroom upstairs that has a skylight over the bed and a golden wood floor, and solid, as the details, once discovered, do not change. Every time I have the dream, I discover new particulars. I learn them like running my fingers over the pattern of a patchwork blanket. The washroom is a blinding white, as are the french doors that lead to the back yard. We sing in the shower, there, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen. There are trees in the flower fenced back yard and a swing and books by the stairs, and sunlight, sunlight everywhere.
Is it a symptom of getting older? The reaching shadow of thirty stretching out backward in time to tease out a genetic desire to finally settle down? I feel threatened by these dreams, by how comfortable they are, how completely satisfied, when I’ve never been anywhere in reality I’ve wanted to permanantly live. They unsettle me. I wake feeling rattled, as if somewhere in my past I missed a crucial step that would have saved me, would have placed me, grounded me, given me a life I’d like to live, as if my repeated dreams are a glimpse into some trite, polished could-have-been. I refuse to give in to such quirks of fantasy. Instead I am annoyed at the notion. Why not images of a Jan Chipchase fantastic career? Or travel or amazing adventure? Why something so banal as a sweet, tiny hypothetical house? Where’s my flying car? My deregulated smart drugs? My endless supply of ferrets or fluffy kitten love?
The moment I knew I was lost, however, that this dream was doomed to repeat, is when I gave in to the myth, and lent it credence, and tried to slueth in my sleep, peering out the phantasmic windows, attempting to guess the location of this perfect fictional place.
where we stayed in san diego
The Orient Express Suite at the Balboa Park Inn, almost directly next to the San Diego Zoo, found in a search for “honeymoon suites” on-line. (Please note their decription completely fails to mention the mirror on the ceiling over the bed. To say it startled us upon discovery is an understatement.) Never having been to a theme hotel before, I have nothing alike to compare it to, but in comparison to the La Jolla Hilton where we’d stayed the night before, it was obscenely comfortable and hilariously decadent. We also scored a New Year’s Special discount. Five stars. Zomg.
how do indoor cats catch fleas?
Arrived home to a chemical tang, even with the windows wide open. Three fleas were found in the last four weeks, which is two fleas too many, so David took it upon himself to powder the carpets and wash, collar, and pest-poison the cats while I was away. Given that they have never had a bath before, I can’t help but feel he was terribly brave.
Also, for the record, apparently off-the-shelf hairball medicine is marketed as “cat lube”.
norwescon recap
My ride: Gorgeous, bizarre, a massive vintage green beast of a machine bought off the Watchman when they dismantled the movie set. I hear it outside before Ross calls to say he’s arrived, loud, incredible, purring an actual vroom hrum hrum hrumph every time he hit the gas. A steel gas sucker, sure, and it needs to be tuned, but I love it. Talk about personality. We filled it with swords, of course, stuffing the trunk full of pointy things on the way down, and even more on the way back. Blades for sale, for hobby, for profit, for trade. You need something sharp and likely highly impractical, then Ross is your guy.
Norwescon itself was only slightly less colourful.
Tony and I are desultory congoers, lacking the rockstar fannish vibe, glad to see friends, but not terribly organized about the whole thing. (Seriously, the ratio of People I Looked For VS. People I Found borders on shameful. I love you people, where were you hiding?) Thursday we skipped altogether, because I am fail, and thought Kris was reading on Friday, and Friday we didn’t arrive until late, only in time to catch the end of the dance. Saturday we did much better. No panels, no readings, but lucky enough to find seats at the Kitten Sundae concert, a sweet and pretty band what is two bands combined: Vixy & Tony mixed with S.J. Tucker, aka Skinny White Chick. We also bid and won a space mouse in the art room, picked up some prints, and not only did I commission another replacement garnet ear cuff from Angela, I booked a shoot with her next week, which I expect will be tremendous fun.
All things must pass, however, and before we were swept up by anyone in particular, we crept away from social time to hide in our room to celebrate our proto-anniversary until evening, luxuriating in sloth, nibbling on a brought picnic of strawberries, chevre, vegetable crackers, and pepper salami slices, and watching Ghost, (more proof that Tony is more of a girl than me, yes), and Pretty Woman while naked in bed, refusing to emerge until it was time to dance/party. The rest of the night was made of boogie, dancing at various parties and in the main ballroom with Gustavo and Angel until our legs were fit to fall off, not getting to bed until five in the morning.
Sunday, we left in the early afternoon, taking light rail back into town with a girl named Shoshona, eating breakfast downtown, then passing out on the couch at home for five hours, wiped out completely and content.