Distracted

Is it just me, or is there a whole lot of nasty stuff going down here, lately?! It seems there are a lot of things floating around my world these last few weeks that I don't want to think about. I will think about them eventually. I've set them in the back of the fridge like a sourdough starter and when they're ripe, I'll make some delicious decision bread. Not today. Today I am completely distracted.

I dreamed last night that an old friend and I were standing in what looked like a Soviet bread line. We huddled outside with a lot of grim faced strangers, shuffling our feet andlooking at the ground.


 Smash cut. We emerged in a dark, Warhol-esque warehouse sort of scene. Standing at a cocktail table, my friend and I squabbled over who would speak to Billy D. Williams. I wanted Friend to because he has connections "in the industry". He was afraid of looking uncool when he asked Billy D. to sign the Lando Calrissian action figure I had smuggled in. Friend finally agreed to do it, but every time he touched the action figure, it turned into a talking Kelsey Grammer / Frasier Crane doll.

  Insert cartoonish struggling over action figure and scuffling onto the floor. [Ever conscious of sticky things, I am a little appalled, even in my dream, that I am rolling around on the floor of a club.] Landed sweating and dissheveled in front of the stage just as David Bowie came on. But it was like Labyrinth David Bowie and he gave us the stink-eye for ruining his entrance. I recoiled from the inexplicably spooky dream subtext that is impossible to explain, but then was oddly excited because I got some Bowie glitter on me. I turned around to show Friend and he was gone. So was my Lando Calrissian action figure. The latter was more ominous than the former for some reason.

Needless to say, it was a strange way to start the day. My day that only got stranger for myriad reasons that I am still not thinking about. This day that will conclude with going to see David Shields give a talk at the library for National Write a Novel Month. I want to bring a book for him to autograph, but being the library addict bibliophile that I am, the only book of his that I actually own is a copy of Reality Hunger that he, himself, sent to me last year. [Free plug for the book: if you read, write, think about reading, think about writing, you should read this book. It could really change your world.] Would it be strange to have him autograph it again? And why, oh why?! did I not do laundry in preparation for this? I have only ridiculous pants left to wear. It may be more than this girl can handle.