osmie: (Bowler)
I dreamed of bibliographic scandals in the publication history of Frédéric Chopin.

From the 1930s to the 1950s, the world's leading Chopin editor was a German conductor named Heinrich Imboll. In 1953 it was discovered that he had flagrantly interpolated his own work into half a dozen Mazurkas and one entire Ballade (now known as the "False Ballade"), and even his early, accurate edition of the Waltzes fell from favour.

Imboll's work was replaced in music stores by an American editor named Hiroko Kusanagi, whose revisionism was confined to a 1951 Ph.D. thesis from Brigham Young University. In Kusanagi's world, Chopin represented the same divine insight that inspired Joseph Smith, leading the people to Mormonism from the other side of the planet through a series of intricate structural clues in the Mazurkas. Kusanagi—who had converted to Mormonism during the Japanese internment—omitted this theory from her published introductions, but when it came to light in 1974, her editions too were discredited.

After the brief sensations of a (largely illegible) facsimile manuscript and the "Hooked on Classics" transcription, Chopin scholarship settled on the unremarkable Lu Chen edition of 1912, with new fingerings by Arthur Rubinstein—and that infamous pagination error you've probably had to correct in your own copy, reversing the sixth and seventh pages of the Waltz in B Major.
osmie: (Default)
First I was the entire Battlestar Galactica fleet, squadrons of Vipers departing and recombining and intersecting myself; I felt each ship as a part of myself, a tactile sensation interacting with other tactile sensations. This was a glorious strange synæsthesia whose like I've never experienced before.

This is the sort of dream which I like to imagine hundun has frequently.

Second I was myself again, back at UBC in preparation for a major, Olympic-scale sporting event. I was part of an emergency engineering team setting up a course for a brand new event, which had been invented and approved on paper but which had never been tried in the world: inner-tubing down a waterslide through a stream of chocolate peanut butter sundae. Unfortunately the viscosity was wrong, and my team had to dismantle and reassemble the track before the festivities started.

Most of my team was working on the track design: the slope, the turning radius, the time between tube launches. A few were working on the chocolate peanut butter recipe. My job was screwing bolts into the arena wall.

I went for a walk over lunch break; it seems the waterslide arena occupied most of the Hennings building.

Although I didn't run into her, by the time I came back [personal profile] peristalsis had somehow put me onto an amazing techno track, which played at high speed the entire colonial history of Minnesota: one (highly percussive) waveform for battles, another for cultural events, another for political events, and so on. The history rigorously provided the rhythm, but the composer had put together some compelling melodic and harmonic riffs on top of it.

So I played this song over the speakers while we tested the track—and discovered that if I hooked the music system into the sundae distribution software, everything worked perfectly. The gunfire-peanuts were expelled at just the right moments to propel each inner tube along the track instead of restricting it; the chocolate and peanut butter sauces mixed with the ice cream in a perfect consistency and aroma.

We tried other colonial-history pieces by the same composer, but none of them worked as well as Minnesota.

This is the sort of dream which I like to imagine Yo has frequently.
osmie: (Default)
The hockey stadium in Calgary needed a new roof.

This wasn't the hockey arena; this was the stadium, where some very large men played a peculiarly Canadian variety of football that, if I didn't know better, I might have thought was actually hockey by another name. They wore sharp skates, and carried sticks which hit the ball across a layer of ice. At least it was called a ball; it didn't really bounce like a ball. I didn't get a close enough look to see whether it resembled a puck.

Either way, the stadium needed a new roof. And it was raining.

Every drop that fell made the spectators shiver, or the ice melt. But there were a lot of drops, as the rainstorm grew more like Vancouver in November, and the holes in the roof got bigger and started to creak.

Hockey, unlike baseball, has no rules for calling the game on account of rain. The play continued. The ice got slipperier; the skates sped up.

I was watching from behind the large doors where the Zamboni usually enters, along with all of the other groupies. (The others were all substantially younger, hotter and more buxom than I am in real life, but we talked and hugged and squealed as a unit, so I think I can fairly assume that I'd adopted their approximate shape for the duration.) We didn't have seats. We jumped up and down behind the glass, or sat occasionally on the wet rubber floor and talked about the next game in Winnipeg.

Gradually the ice melted, and the rain got heavier. Eventually the players were skating on the blue plastic sheeting which underlay it—and then tore the tarps, and began to skate upon the stadium-filling array of queen-size mattresses which formed their base. The rain kept falling; nobody left; the game must go on. We groupies huddled together in the downpour, and watched through the glass from behind the goal line, and cheered the instant replays on the giant screen which dangled, occasionally sparking, occasionally swaying, from the decaying roof.

It's hard to skate across wet mattresses. Skates don't glide well; they tear into the fabric and you fall down. The players adopted a running gait as they charged through the stadium, making a thousand small cuts, searching for another goal. We cheered.
osmie: (Default)
The hockey stadium in Calgary needed a new roof.

This wasn't the hockey arena; this was the stadium, where some very large men played a peculiarly Canadian variety of football that, if I didn't know better, I might have thought was actually hockey by another name. They wore sharp skates, and carried sticks which hit the ball across a layer of ice. At least it was called a ball; it didn't really bounce like a ball. I didn't get a close enough look to see whether it resembled a puck.

Either way, the stadium needed a new roof. And it was raining.

Every drop that fell made the spectators shiver, or the ice melt. But there were a lot of drops, as the rainstorm grew more like Vancouver in November, and the holes in the roof got bigger and started to creak.

Hockey, unlike baseball, has no rules for calling the game on account of rain. The play continued. The ice got slipperier; the skates sped up.

I was watching from behind the large doors where the Zamboni usually enters, along with all of the other groupies. (The others were all substantially younger, hotter and more buxom than I am in real life, but we talked and hugged and squealed as a unit, so I think I can fairly assume that I'd adopted their approximate shape for the duration.) We didn't have seats. We jumped up and down behind the glass, or sat occasionally on the wet rubber floor and talked about the next game in Winnipeg.

Gradually the ice melted, and the rain got heavier. Eventually the players were skating on the blue plastic sheeting which underlay it—and then tore the tarps, and began to skate upon the stadium-filling array of queen-size mattresses which formed their base. The rain kept falling; nobody left; the game must go on. We groupies huddled together in the downpour, and watched through the glass from behind the goal line, and cheered the instant replays on the giant screen which dangled, occasionally sparking, occasionally swaying, from the decaying roof.

It's hard to skate across wet mattresses. Skates don't glide well; they tear into the fabric and you fall down. The players adopted a running gait as they charged through the stadium, making a thousand small cuts, searching for another goal. We cheered.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed that I'd completely forgotten about a grad course in Victorian Literature which I'd been taking all semester. So I went to the next class, talked to the professor, and negotiated a withdrawal.

G13 and I found a computer application which massively sped up evolution within about 100 metres. The changing garden looked beautiful until an enormous tree with braided trunks fell on the house, and the cats got out. We shut off the application in embarrassment.

I booked my bike for a tune-up at a shop near Edmonds SkyTrain, then remembered that I'd just given it a tune-up at Jett Grrl. So I called to cancel my appointment, turned around and came home.

On the bus I realized we'd be passing near [livejournal.com profile] saxifrage00 and [livejournal.com profile] darthmaus' house, so I called to ask whether I could stop by and borrow their copy of Div, Grad, Curl and All That.1 They said sure, invited me in, introduced me to their new housemate, and handed me the book with a reminder that "Div" is pronounced to rhyme with "Steve."2



1I did not offer to return either of the books I've already borrowed from them. My dream wasn't that responsible.
2I'm pretty sure this is not true in real life.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed that I'd completely forgotten about a grad course in Victorian Literature which I'd been taking all semester. So I went to the next class, talked to the professor, and negotiated a withdrawal.

G13 and I found a computer application which massively sped up evolution within about 100 metres. The changing garden looked beautiful until an enormous tree with braided trunks fell on the house, and the cats got out. We shut off the application in embarrassment.

I booked my bike for a tune-up at a shop near Edmonds SkyTrain, then remembered that I'd just given it a tune-up at Jett Grrl. So I called to cancel my appointment, turned around and came home.

On the bus I realized we'd be passing near [livejournal.com profile] saxifrage00 and [livejournal.com profile] darthmaus' house, so I called to ask whether I could stop by and borrow their copy of Div, Grad, Curl and All That.1 They said sure, invited me in, introduced me to their new housemate, and handed me the book with a reminder that "Div" is pronounced to rhyme with "Steve."2



1I did not offer to return either of the books I've already borrowed from them. My dream wasn't that responsible.
2I'm pretty sure this is not true in real life.
osmie: (Default)
In my dream I was back in Montréal, and this time I decided to stay. I rented a room from an Ethiopian family, and [livejournal.com profile] fimmtiu (who worked at Archambault, and in my dream was being portrayed by a man named Tim) offered to "gramp" my music system so that it would no longer rely on a technology so outdated as MIDI.

After a couple of weeks enjoying my new city, I went to see a double bill at a local repertory cinema one Thursday afternoon. Just at the climax of the second film, in which the young & sexy members of Duran Duran were embarking on a limousine chase through Monaco, a friend named B. marched into the theatre declaiming about BC politics, and arguing in particular with a speech I had made a week earlier at a party. Both of us were thrown out of the building.

So that evening I went to the live auditions for Britain's Got Talent with G13 as my assistant. Paul Potts introduced us, and we got to work assembling tiny Lego-like pieces into detailed 3-D puzzles on stage. The judges were terribly kind and gave us almost an hour, but we couldn't even finish the first puzzle (a giant obsidian sculpture of a pig hang-gliding in a canoe).

Dejected, I took the puzzle pieces home with me, and stayed up most of the night putting them together in my newly gramped music studio. The next day I brought them to the library, where I ran into B. again. "Is there anything you're good at without having to be an expert?" ze asked me. In my sleep-deprived state, I didn't know how to respond to this: I completely forgot to challenge hir on hir rudeness at the Duran Duran movie, and asked hir out on a date instead. Ze agreed.

At the end of the dream, I was driving around Point Grey in the early morning with a completely different friend, T., so I assume I must have fled back to Vancouver and stood B. up. Or it's possible that the first dream proceeded to a most satisfactory conclusion which I've now forgotten entirely, and this bit was a teaser to another dream altogether.
osmie: (Default)
In my dream I was back in Montréal, and this time I decided to stay. I rented a room from an Ethiopian family, and [livejournal.com profile] fimmtiu (who worked at Archambault, and in my dream was being portrayed by a man named Tim) offered to "gramp" my music system so that it would no longer rely on a technology so outdated as MIDI.

After a couple of weeks enjoying my new city, I went to see a double bill at a local repertory cinema one Thursday afternoon. Just at the climax of the second film, in which the young & sexy members of Duran Duran were embarking on a limousine chase through Monaco, a friend named B. marched into the theatre declaiming about BC politics, and arguing in particular with a speech I had made a week earlier at a party. Both of us were thrown out of the building.

So that evening I went to the live auditions for Britain's Got Talent with G13 as my assistant. Paul Potts introduced us, and we got to work assembling tiny Lego-like pieces into detailed 3-D puzzles on stage. The judges were terribly kind and gave us almost an hour, but we couldn't even finish the first puzzle (a giant obsidian sculpture of a pig hang-gliding in a canoe).

Dejected, I took the puzzle pieces home with me, and stayed up most of the night putting them together in my newly gramped music studio. The next day I brought them to the library, where I ran into B. again. "Is there anything you're good at without having to be an expert?" ze asked me. In my sleep-deprived state, I didn't know how to respond to this: I completely forgot to challenge hir on hir rudeness at the Duran Duran movie, and asked hir out on a date instead. Ze agreed.

At the end of the dream, I was driving around Point Grey in the early morning with a completely different friend, T., so I assume I must have fled back to Vancouver and stood B. up. Or it's possible that the first dream proceeded to a most satisfactory conclusion which I've now forgotten entirely, and this bit was a teaser to another dream altogether.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed I had found some notes, dated 1980, toward the creation of a UBC Mystery Hunt to rival that of MIT. They were in my cousin's apartment, where for reasons obscure I was tiptoeing about and disconnecting electrical devices at night; and do note how conveniently I'm avoiding the questions of why my cousin had a UBC document from a year she was still in high school, of why I was in my cousin's apartment in the first place, and for that matter of what my cousin was doing living in an apartment.

I didn't recognize the names on the documents, which had been printed in dark purple ink on aging white office paper, about 8"x10.5", using a ditto machine. One of them might have been Donald something. Both were male.

The hunt was themed around special relativity. Some of the puzzles had a grid which was too small, a timeline that was too short, or (in some fashion the authors did not describe in their brief) not enough mass. Others had extra time, space or mass. You could make one puzzle bigger or smaller at the expense of another by calculating your own velocity relative to each puzzle. Since each puzzle came with a set of coordinates, this process would eventually lead to a spacetime diagram of lots of solutions flying around the cosmos at high relative velocities, which in turn would lead to the final set of puzzles.

The authors also provided two sample puzzles, in which one had to transfer length from one set of answers (which was clearly departing at relativistic speed and thus redshifted, so that its answers appeared longer than they actually were) to another (which was clearly arriving at relativistic speed and thus blueshifted, with the reverse effect). I don't recall anything about the puzzles themselves.

It sounded like a really neat idea for a ridiculously complex scheme of puzzles, but the major problem is that only university-level math & physics geeks would enjoy it. That's all well and good for a demesne like MIT, but I haven't even been a UBC student for many years. I can't think where to market it.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed I had found some notes, dated 1980, toward the creation of a UBC Mystery Hunt to rival that of MIT. They were in my cousin's apartment, where for reasons obscure I was tiptoeing about and disconnecting electrical devices at night; and do note how conveniently I'm avoiding the questions of why my cousin had a UBC document from a year she was still in high school, of why I was in my cousin's apartment in the first place, and for that matter of what my cousin was doing living in an apartment.

I didn't recognize the names on the documents, which had been printed in dark purple ink on aging white office paper, about 8"x10.5", using a ditto machine. One of them might have been Donald something. Both were male.

The hunt was themed around special relativity. Some of the puzzles had a grid which was too small, a timeline that was too short, or (in some fashion the authors did not describe in their brief) not enough mass. Others had extra time, space or mass. You could make one puzzle bigger or smaller at the expense of another by calculating your own velocity relative to each puzzle. Since each puzzle came with a set of coordinates, this process would eventually lead to a spacetime diagram of lots of solutions flying around the cosmos at high relative velocities, which in turn would lead to the final set of puzzles.

The authors also provided two sample puzzles, in which one had to transfer length from one set of answers (which was clearly departing at relativistic speed and thus redshifted, so that its answers appeared longer than they actually were) to another (which was clearly arriving at relativistic speed and thus blueshifted, with the reverse effect). I don't recall anything about the puzzles themselves.

It sounded like a really neat idea for a ridiculously complex scheme of puzzles, but the major problem is that only university-level math & physics geeks would enjoy it. That's all well and good for a demesne like MIT, but I haven't even been a UBC student for many years. I can't think where to market it.
osmie: (Default)
In my dream, an older woman of my acquaintance complained on the UBC bus that it had taken an hour and a half during rush hour to travel home to Point Grey from her doctor's appointment downtown. That was just too slow, so J and G and I took a jet plane instead.

From above we began pointing out big structures to one another on the great plain below: the Golden Gate bridge, Notre Dame cathedral, the palace of Westminster. Next to the cathedral was a playground built to resemble it in miniature, along with a play windmill just like the archetypal Dutch structure nearby. This was curious, so we walked over to investigate further.

Two blue IKEA laundry hampers had been converted into garbage cans, in which somebody had been lighting stinky beach fires. One was still lit. I thought I saw a third hamper, but carry them around as I might, I could never get all three into the same place, and they couldn't be moving around on their own, could they? But J insisted there were just the two of them. We picked them up and moved along.

It was very warm for November, and kids were jumping in the river. We walked through the park, past the end of the beach blankets, and looked down on it as it narrowed and curved into rapids. G dropped a hamper (which was now a blue plastic bucket) over the railing to watch it bob away in the current. I suggested that the canyon was even cooler, if he wanted to drop the second bucket there, so we left J and walked farther along the high path, the river dropping away beside us.

In the canyon the view was extraordinary, deep red rock walls cragging down to the roaring whitewater. I asked G if he wanted to follow it even farther, warning him that the climb back up was tricky. He said yes, and so I led him to where the path became a waterslide, spiraling down to what I knew was a three-metre drop into a still pool. I suggested he hold onto the sides if he didn't want the job of climbing back up those last three metres, which I knew from experience were an annoying bit of bouldering. He agreed, and so I climbed down past him into the pool.

This left us perfectly positioned to begin carrying back my father's collection of Australian literature. The most important thing was to make sure it stayed complete, and that we didn't accidentally leave any books behind in the dark of the waterslide. We counted and bundled books and began passing them upward.

G woke me up then.
osmie: (Default)
In my dream, an older woman of my acquaintance complained on the UBC bus that it had taken an hour and a half during rush hour to travel home to Point Grey from her doctor's appointment downtown. That was just too slow, so J and G and I took a jet plane instead.

From above we began pointing out big structures to one another on the great plain below: the Golden Gate bridge, Notre Dame cathedral, the palace of Westminster. Next to the cathedral was a playground built to resemble it in miniature, along with a play windmill just like the archetypal Dutch structure nearby. This was curious, so we walked over to investigate further.

Two blue IKEA laundry hampers had been converted into garbage cans, in which somebody had been lighting stinky beach fires. One was still lit. I thought I saw a third hamper, but carry them around as I might, I could never get all three into the same place, and they couldn't be moving around on their own, could they? But J insisted there were just the two of them. We picked them up and moved along.

It was very warm for November, and kids were jumping in the river. We walked through the park, past the end of the beach blankets, and looked down on it as it narrowed and curved into rapids. G dropped a hamper (which was now a blue plastic bucket) over the railing to watch it bob away in the current. I suggested that the canyon was even cooler, if he wanted to drop the second bucket there, so we left J and walked farther along the high path, the river dropping away beside us.

In the canyon the view was extraordinary, deep red rock walls cragging down to the roaring whitewater. I asked G if he wanted to follow it even farther, warning him that the climb back up was tricky. He said yes, and so I led him to where the path became a waterslide, spiraling down to what I knew was a three-metre drop into a still pool. I suggested he hold onto the sides if he didn't want the job of climbing back up those last three metres, which I knew from experience were an annoying bit of bouldering. He agreed, and so I climbed down past him into the pool.

This left us perfectly positioned to begin carrying back my father's collection of Australian literature. The most important thing was to make sure it stayed complete, and that we didn't accidentally leave any books behind in the dark of the waterslide. We counted and bundled books and began passing them upward.

G woke me up then.
osmie: (Default)
Although the rooms I was in are in my parents' house, and familiar to me, I knew I was at an airport. In between. There was a nondescript waiting room, identical banks of identical plastic chairs, between the kitchen and the dining room; another on the way to the garden; both had other doors and corridors leading off into other lives. Perhaps this was some sort of bardo.

I had a fever. Everyone agreed on that, although finding a thermometer capable of measuring it absorbed a lot of time, and ultimately we never did arrive at a specific number. Or maybe it was just me, talking too much, refusing to slow down long enough for the thermometer to get a reading. And my timing was off, making pancakes for breakfast before I read the party instructions which asked for a pancake-layered birthday cake for lunch. But whose party was it, out in the garden, on the other side of the waiting room?

I'd slept in my clothes, shoes and jacket and cardigan and all, overdressed for the summer weather, shivering anyway. My dad asked where my winter coat was and I pretended not to understand, indicating my cycling windbreaker instead. I couldn't feel the temperature outside any more than I could measure the temperature inside, but I could see everyone else's summer outfits and I could tell that a winter coat would be too heavy.

In the waiting room I was surprised to meet Zacc (who was being played by a rather generic Hollywood sandy-blond hunk), then more surprised to meet Zach (who, just to keep things simple, was being played by Zac). I introduced them and dispiritedly began a conversation about JavaScript and Ajax.

After the techspeak had completely blurred together, I noticed that my phone bill was beeping at me. It was printed on that newfangled wifi paper, reconfiguring the pixels live to represent the most recent invoice, and now it claimed that I was overdue on my purchase of an unwanted video game. Somehow I'd clicked on the touch screen during an ad, and my phone had automatically downloaded & started the game without my knowledge. Now I'd lost all the lives I didn't know I had, and wasn't sure I wanted, and the phone company wanted $35 or so in recompense. The number was ticking slowly upwards, I knew, one cent at a time, its interest compounded as often as necessary to fall just shy of the usury laws.

The thermometer in my mouth still read 35.4 degrees, not even high enough for normal, and was ticking upwards much too slowly. But everyone agreed I had a fever, and the trace of sweat all over my body, and the way I wanted to sit down here in the waiting room, on those uncomfortable plastic chairs, listening to Zacc and Zach ask me questions about my favourite Ajax implementations, trying to picture the video game in my head so that maybe, if my imagination could supply enough details of the gameworld and the gameplay, it might have been worth $35.40 and ticking slowly upwards, led me to believe it.
osmie: (Default)
Although the rooms I was in are in my parents' house, and familiar to me, I knew I was at an airport. In between. There was a nondescript waiting room, identical banks of identical plastic chairs, between the kitchen and the dining room; another on the way to the garden; both had other doors and corridors leading off into other lives. Perhaps this was some sort of bardo.

I had a fever. Everyone agreed on that, although finding a thermometer capable of measuring it absorbed a lot of time, and ultimately we never did arrive at a specific number. Or maybe it was just me, talking too much, refusing to slow down long enough for the thermometer to get a reading. And my timing was off, making pancakes for breakfast before I read the party instructions which asked for a pancake-layered birthday cake for lunch. But whose party was it, out in the garden, on the other side of the waiting room?

I'd slept in my clothes, shoes and jacket and cardigan and all, overdressed for the summer weather, shivering anyway. My dad asked where my winter coat was and I pretended not to understand, indicating my cycling windbreaker instead. I couldn't feel the temperature outside any more than I could measure the temperature inside, but I could see everyone else's summer outfits and I could tell that a winter coat would be too heavy.

In the waiting room I was surprised to meet Zacc (who was being played by a rather generic Hollywood sandy-blond hunk), then more surprised to meet Zach (who, just to keep things simple, was being played by Zac). I introduced them and dispiritedly began a conversation about JavaScript and Ajax.

After the techspeak had completely blurred together, I noticed that my phone bill was beeping at me. It was printed on that newfangled wifi paper, reconfiguring the pixels live to represent the most recent invoice, and now it claimed that I was overdue on my purchase of an unwanted video game. Somehow I'd clicked on the touch screen during an ad, and my phone had automatically downloaded & started the game without my knowledge. Now I'd lost all the lives I didn't know I had, and wasn't sure I wanted, and the phone company wanted $35 or so in recompense. The number was ticking slowly upwards, I knew, one cent at a time, its interest compounded as often as necessary to fall just shy of the usury laws.

The thermometer in my mouth still read 35.4 degrees, not even high enough for normal, and was ticking upwards much too slowly. But everyone agreed I had a fever, and the trace of sweat all over my body, and the way I wanted to sit down here in the waiting room, on those uncomfortable plastic chairs, listening to Zacc and Zach ask me questions about my favourite Ajax implementations, trying to picture the video game in my head so that maybe, if my imagination could supply enough details of the gameworld and the gameplay, it might have been worth $35.40 and ticking slowly upwards, led me to believe it.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed I was a guest star on Buffy, probably a recurring character. We were recording a postmodern, experimental episode, in which the cast were playing ourselves playing our characters, and the Sunnydale set was being overrun with vampires. So we'd tape a scene, the camera would pivot as we broke out of character and returned to our seats, and then Joss (who was directing, of course) would start prepping us, still on camera, for the next scene-within-a-scene ... when the real fight would begin.

I wasn't dreaming the episode; I was dreaming the filming of the episode. So there were lots of long one-shots where we panned out of Sunnydale into the studio, repeated until we got it right; and lots of short cuts to get the special effects both on and off set.

Later we moved to location shooting, where I walked with Sarah and Nick through the streets of Kitsilano. Sarah was striding ahead of us, looking annoyed and worried that her job had spilled over into her real life, and my role was to catch up to her and deliver a longish speech about how I'd been watching Buffy for years; it was easy to look at her and see Buffy instead of Sarah; it was even easier when she was doing the same moves that had made her character so famous; but that vampire two blocks ago? You staked it, Sarah. That was you. No effects, no script. The Slayer may be just a TV show, but you staked that vamp all by yourself, right here in the real world.

(Of course, this is exactly what the script told me to say. Postmodern episode, remember. I was only playing myself.)

Later in the show, at a party, I would secretly confide to Joss that I'd delivered that speech to Sarah which he'd asked me to, and I thought she believed me ... thus tipping the audience that Joss was up to something mysterious, and might possibly be the real villain of the episode, who had found a way to transport the vampires offscreen.

-----

I was briefly awakened by a phone call this morning. When I returned to sleep, I was dreaming a different Buffy episode -- and this time I was Buffy. There was a sinister party which moved from place to place, opening its doors in our dimension only at significant astrological events, sometimes taking over a block of townhouses, sometimes an island, sometimes a big black future arcology which looked suspiciously like the one from Sim City 2000 ... and the party swallowed the souls of people who entered, gradually and insidiously, starting with their inhibitions.

Willow and Xander and I had been lured inside during the teaser, and only Willow and I escaped before the party winked to another dimension. Now Willow and Giles were racing through arcane lore, trying to figure out when the party would next return to Earth, and where its door would be. We found it under a lunar eclipse, but on exactly the opposite side of the world to the eclipse, on a floating island that would appear just off Los Angeles. Willow and I set out, only to find that multiple doors had opened all up and down the Pacific coast. The island was only the place where all the doors led.

On our way to the nearest door, we passed a friend -- a bit part with no name, a large man carrying a synthesizer and guitar -- with a glassy expression on his face, heading towards the party. We warned him away, and he reassured us that he knew the party was no good. That's why he'd gone back for his synthesizer, he announced happily, and promptly started playing us his lounge cover of Steve Miller's "Abracadabra!" We let him come in with us; he was already lost, and might provide some camouflage in case they were waiting for us.

This time the party was much more fortified, and Xander was blithely singing children's songs in a happy amusement-park corner, his arm around a giant blue-green centipede playing ukulele. We got him out, through a door high in the air, and down an escalator into a dimly lit bog where he promptly collapsed. We let him rest while we raised a mounted attack on the island itself -- reasoning that if we didn't pass through the doors, our minds wouldn't be affected.

The dream became vaguer during the final battle, but of course we were right; we kept our wits about us, and while we didn't destroy the party outright, we weakened it and prevented it from returning to our dimension anytime soon. And Xander recovered, despite having been at the party far longer than many souls who'd long been eaten.

-----

And then I woke up.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed I was a guest star on Buffy, probably a recurring character. We were recording a postmodern, experimental episode, in which the cast were playing ourselves playing our characters, and the Sunnydale set was being overrun with vampires. So we'd tape a scene, the camera would pivot as we broke out of character and returned to our seats, and then Joss (who was directing, of course) would start prepping us, still on camera, for the next scene-within-a-scene ... when the real fight would begin.

I wasn't dreaming the episode; I was dreaming the filming of the episode. So there were lots of long one-shots where we panned out of Sunnydale into the studio, repeated until we got it right; and lots of short cuts to get the special effects both on and off set.

Later we moved to location shooting, where I walked with Sarah and Nick through the streets of Kitsilano. Sarah was striding ahead of us, looking annoyed and worried that her job had spilled over into her real life, and my role was to catch up to her and deliver a longish speech about how I'd been watching Buffy for years; it was easy to look at her and see Buffy instead of Sarah; it was even easier when she was doing the same moves that had made her character so famous; but that vampire two blocks ago? You staked it, Sarah. That was you. No effects, no script. The Slayer may be just a TV show, but you staked that vamp all by yourself, right here in the real world.

(Of course, this is exactly what the script told me to say. Postmodern episode, remember. I was only playing myself.)

Later in the show, at a party, I would secretly confide to Joss that I'd delivered that speech to Sarah which he'd asked me to, and I thought she believed me ... thus tipping the audience that Joss was up to something mysterious, and might possibly be the real villain of the episode, who had found a way to transport the vampires offscreen.

-----

I was briefly awakened by a phone call this morning. When I returned to sleep, I was dreaming a different Buffy episode -- and this time I was Buffy. There was a sinister party which moved from place to place, opening its doors in our dimension only at significant astrological events, sometimes taking over a block of townhouses, sometimes an island, sometimes a big black future arcology which looked suspiciously like the one from Sim City 2000 ... and the party swallowed the souls of people who entered, gradually and insidiously, starting with their inhibitions.

Willow and Xander and I had been lured inside during the teaser, and only Willow and I escaped before the party winked to another dimension. Now Willow and Giles were racing through arcane lore, trying to figure out when the party would next return to Earth, and where its door would be. We found it under a lunar eclipse, but on exactly the opposite side of the world to the eclipse, on a floating island that would appear just off Los Angeles. Willow and I set out, only to find that multiple doors had opened all up and down the Pacific coast. The island was only the place where all the doors led.

On our way to the nearest door, we passed a friend -- a bit part with no name, a large man carrying a synthesizer and guitar -- with a glassy expression on his face, heading towards the party. We warned him away, and he reassured us that he knew the party was no good. That's why he'd gone back for his synthesizer, he announced happily, and promptly started playing us his lounge cover of Steve Miller's "Abracadabra!" We let him come in with us; he was already lost, and might provide some camouflage in case they were waiting for us.

This time the party was much more fortified, and Xander was blithely singing children's songs in a happy amusement-park corner, his arm around a giant blue-green centipede playing ukulele. We got him out, through a door high in the air, and down an escalator into a dimly lit bog where he promptly collapsed. We let him rest while we raised a mounted attack on the island itself -- reasoning that if we didn't pass through the doors, our minds wouldn't be affected.

The dream became vaguer during the final battle, but of course we were right; we kept our wits about us, and while we didn't destroy the party outright, we weakened it and prevented it from returning to our dimension anytime soon. And Xander recovered, despite having been at the party far longer than many souls who'd long been eaten.

-----

And then I woke up.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed that it was 4pm on a Thursday, and all of a sudden I realized that I'd made a commitment to get to this year's World Puzzle Championships in Metz, France. It started in three days. I needed to find the first available flight to Paris and grab a train.

So far so good -- except that I couldn't immediately find my passport. After some searching I did manage to find Diane's, which is odd because I haven't seen Diane in about ten years, and she would never have entrusted me with her passport in the first place. It was long expired, but I made a mental note to track down her address and mail it back to her. Meanwhile, I kept searching for my own.

By 5pm I had found it, only to exclaim in dismay that it was due to expire in two weeks. Officially I could get to France and back, but their immigration department might be a little worried about admitting me: what if I caught pneumonia and had to stay a fortnight? My passport would expire while I was there. Immigration departments are paid to worry about this sort of thing. Maybe if I lined up at 5am on Friday at the passport office, I might be able to get an over-the-counter one-week extension? It seemed like my only hope.

I hadn't been to the championships in years, after all. I didn't want to have to wait for next year in ... drat, was it Perth or Melbourne?1

So I came to work, and nervously approached my boss about the idea of taking a week's vacation immediately, assuming that I could even find a flight, and that France would let me in. She reluctantly agreed, and then suggested that her father's ... business might be able to expedite my passport renewal in only 24 hours. (In my dream I heard the slight hesitation before the word "business," but still assumed he must run some high-powered travel agency. On waking, this part of the dream sounds a bit more sinister.) I was delighted; I handed over my passport right away, and walked downstairs to the Flight Centre outlet.

Now, as far as I know, my boss' family doesn't actually have secret passport-renewing powers, sinister or otherwise, but my desk at work really is directly above a Flight Centre. Alas, in my dream they were closed early (it was now about 5:40pm), with a sign on the door advertising for new staff. I checked the official hours: Thursday to 6:30pm, Friday to 6:12pm, Saturday to 6:05pm, and marvelled at the tight human resources scheduling which would allow such precise closing times. In the window I could see a Paris flight advertised for $839; I hoped it was available from the Flight Centre a block away on Dunsmuir.

I took a shortcut through Vancouver's huge underground commuter train concourse -- I'm sure you know the one -- took a moment to admire the chandeliers, and emerged at the corner of Dunsmuir and Seymour. It was starting to look as though I might just make it to Metz by Sunday.

Then I woke up, and had to spend at least half an hour calmly deconstructing my dream to sort out which memories were real.

1It occurs to me that only diehard puzzle fanatics would catch this incongruity. This year's WPC was held several weeks ago in Rio de Janeiro. Next year's is in Vilnius, Lithuania. I still have no idea why I was dreaming about Metz.

No, I've never been there. No, I've never been to Perth or Melbourne either.
osmie: (Default)
Last night I dreamed that it was 4pm on a Thursday, and all of a sudden I realized that I'd made a commitment to get to this year's World Puzzle Championships in Metz, France. It started in three days. I needed to find the first available flight to Paris and grab a train.

So far so good -- except that I couldn't immediately find my passport. After some searching I did manage to find Diane's, which is odd because I haven't seen Diane in about ten years, and she would never have entrusted me with her passport in the first place. It was long expired, but I made a mental note to track down her address and mail it back to her. Meanwhile, I kept searching for my own.

By 5pm I had found it, only to exclaim in dismay that it was due to expire in two weeks. Officially I could get to France and back, but their immigration department might be a little worried about admitting me: what if I caught pneumonia and had to stay a fortnight? My passport would expire while I was there. Immigration departments are paid to worry about this sort of thing. Maybe if I lined up at 5am on Friday at the passport office, I might be able to get an over-the-counter one-week extension? It seemed like my only hope.

I hadn't been to the championships in years, after all. I didn't want to have to wait for next year in ... drat, was it Perth or Melbourne?1

So I came to work, and nervously approached my boss about the idea of taking a week's vacation immediately, assuming that I could even find a flight, and that France would let me in. She reluctantly agreed, and then suggested that her father's ... business might be able to expedite my passport renewal in only 24 hours. (In my dream I heard the slight hesitation before the word "business," but still assumed he must run some high-powered travel agency. On waking, this part of the dream sounds a bit more sinister.) I was delighted; I handed over my passport right away, and walked downstairs to the Flight Centre outlet.

Now, as far as I know, my boss' family doesn't actually have secret passport-renewing powers, sinister or otherwise, but my desk at work really is directly above a Flight Centre. Alas, in my dream they were closed early (it was now about 5:40pm), with a sign on the door advertising for new staff. I checked the official hours: Thursday to 6:30pm, Friday to 6:12pm, Saturday to 6:05pm, and marvelled at the tight human resources scheduling which would allow such precise closing times. In the window I could see a Paris flight advertised for $839; I hoped it was available from the Flight Centre a block away on Dunsmuir.

I took a shortcut through Vancouver's huge underground commuter train concourse -- I'm sure you know the one -- took a moment to admire the chandeliers, and emerged at the corner of Dunsmuir and Seymour. It was starting to look as though I might just make it to Metz by Sunday.

Then I woke up, and had to spend at least half an hour calmly deconstructing my dream to sort out which memories were real.

1It occurs to me that only diehard puzzle fanatics would catch this incongruity. This year's WPC was held several weeks ago in Rio de Janeiro. Next year's is in Vilnius, Lithuania. I still have no idea why I was dreaming about Metz.

No, I've never been there. No, I've never been to Perth or Melbourne either.
osmie: (Default)
One was on Broadway, somewhere near where Raxx used to be: a yellow-painted façade with bright orange trim about five metres wide and twenty metres deep, from which all the tables and chairs and other café accoutrements had been removed to the sidewalk to create an enormous stage. They were all full of beer-drinking patrons, cheering the five-piece punk/country fusion band which strutted back and forth inside in multiply pierced cowboy boots. A swinging door in the east wall led to the kitchen of a much fancier restaurant, of shared proprietorship. Two-inch floorboards raised half a centimetre over the primary surface marked out a narrow corridor for the servers. "Randy's," the place was called.

I stopped and listened awhile, then moved on.

The next open mike was at a carpeted lounge called "Oasis," in the shopping centre which was torn down a few years ago from the corner of Broadway and Cambie. It was deserted. The lone kitchen worker was hanging dark purple drapes over the ovens and coffee maker, while five remaining customers at two tables stretched their legs and prepared to leave. I nodded to them and passed on by.

At 10th Avenue, next door to the VanCity, I found a small café run by a matronly woman of about fifty, along with her university-aged kids. The business had grown by word of mouth from her kids' friends persistently coming to dinner, and it still had a very family feel, down to the hundred-year-old upright piano in the corner. This café held open mikes every afternoon, but only one evening a week, and this wasn't the evening. A musician I'd seen there before was just completing his solo set: I remember feeling unimpressed by his songwriting, and a bit lacklustre about his guitar skills, but oh my god what a voice: spinning effortlessly from tenor to countertenor range, trilling major sixths, managing his head and chest ranges with equal perfect control. If only he'd had better material to work with.

He whipped his guitar to a final chord and threw himself down to the couch. The proprietor turned to me and said that while music was over for the night, perhaps I wouldn't mind giving a lecture on the meaning of E=mc2? And so I did, for about half an hour, before taking my leave to meet [livejournal.com profile] rilwyn at the bus stop.

Somewhere in here it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten anything all day. And so I did the logical thing and went to work, where the office had expanded to include a chemistry lab, to watch an eight-year-old Super 8 home movie of G3 toddling across an otherwise rather tightly choreographed circus stage and climbing upon the back of the tame grizzly bear.

Later I woke up.
osmie: (Default)
One was on Broadway, somewhere near where Raxx used to be: a yellow-painted façade with bright orange trim about five metres wide and twenty metres deep, from which all the tables and chairs and other café accoutrements had been removed to the sidewalk to create an enormous stage. They were all full of beer-drinking patrons, cheering the five-piece punk/country fusion band which strutted back and forth inside in multiply pierced cowboy boots. A swinging door in the east wall led to the kitchen of a much fancier restaurant, of shared proprietorship. Two-inch floorboards raised half a centimetre over the primary surface marked out a narrow corridor for the servers. "Randy's," the place was called.

I stopped and listened awhile, then moved on.

The next open mike was at a carpeted lounge called "Oasis," in the shopping centre which was torn down a few years ago from the corner of Broadway and Cambie. It was deserted. The lone kitchen worker was hanging dark purple drapes over the ovens and coffee maker, while five remaining customers at two tables stretched their legs and prepared to leave. I nodded to them and passed on by.

At 10th Avenue, next door to the VanCity, I found a small café run by a matronly woman of about fifty, along with her university-aged kids. The business had grown by word of mouth from her kids' friends persistently coming to dinner, and it still had a very family feel, down to the hundred-year-old upright piano in the corner. This café held open mikes every afternoon, but only one evening a week, and this wasn't the evening. A musician I'd seen there before was just completing his solo set: I remember feeling unimpressed by his songwriting, and a bit lacklustre about his guitar skills, but oh my god what a voice: spinning effortlessly from tenor to countertenor range, trilling major sixths, managing his head and chest ranges with equal perfect control. If only he'd had better material to work with.

He whipped his guitar to a final chord and threw himself down to the couch. The proprietor turned to me and said that while music was over for the night, perhaps I wouldn't mind giving a lecture on the meaning of E=mc2? And so I did, for about half an hour, before taking my leave to meet [livejournal.com profile] rilwyn at the bus stop.

Somewhere in here it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten anything all day. And so I did the logical thing and went to work, where the office had expanded to include a chemistry lab, to watch an eight-year-old Super 8 home movie of G3 toddling across an otherwise rather tightly choreographed circus stage and climbing upon the back of the tame grizzly bear.

Later I woke up.

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