22:14 - July 25, 2002
flan is good
Today I was, in effect, a piece of clay wearing a black renaissance dress and leaning against a dresser reading a 'letter', which was actually a rough sketch of a woman on a couch, for upwards of two hours. Such is the life if you've got someone using you as a model for an oil painting. I also had to read a book in German while in a position that felt way too much like mid-push up. Surprisingly, I didn't mind. An artist's eye is different than that of a leerer, or at least that's what I'm disillusioning myself into believing, and your position is everything. Apparently my pinky is too floppy. Forgive me my transgressions.

I dreamed that J lived across the street and was over at my house with Camille, Dan, and Nikki. We immediately got into a fight over the moral aspects of veganism, Cam and J on one side; Dan and I on the other. Nikki was too impartial to take a side; the only thing she added to the conversation was: 'Well, but the wonton soup....'. J and I ended up kissing outside his house, at which point I went to Dominicks and ran into Camille, who asked where I'd gone and told me that J had just thrown up, so he went home. I told her that he can't have just thrown up and gone home, because I'd just seen him to the door. The more I hinted at having 'hooked up' with him (because in this dream, kissing was major hooking up... I think we were younger) the less impressed she was, even though she, in real life, would be more excited than I was, because of who he is. Afterwards, we went to Pineyard, which had relocated to Church street and gotten some very very bad food, which made everyone sick.

I woke up with my stomach threatening to implode, but not in a nauseous way... turns out I was sleeping on top of my wire-bound notebook.

Has anyone noticed this has been a dream journal way too much lately? For some reason I've been remembering my dreams in perfect detail, and since my life lately is an automated drag, what with 5 days of working and all, there's nothing else to say. Nothing that isn't existentialist blather, that is. Anything I would try to write would come out as follows: I've been reading the Bloom County anthology Mike lent me nonstop. It keeps getting better and better. And clothes came in the mail. And my hair never looks as though it's been brushed, but in the bad way. And I had a terrific climbing day yesterday. And I'm leaving for Boulder in three weeks. And I'm not even apprehensive yet. And I wish Erik would get back. And I like flan to the point of pain.

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