rm | sundries

Last night I dreamed about Sydney. All night. I haven't dreamed about Sydney in a long time.

I was swimming with a friend (not someone I actually know) in the Olympic pool under the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The pool was filled with ocean water (something that makes sense in Sydney sort of, but is not the case with this actual pool) and it was as hideously grey as the sky. But it was warm and very nice. We were treading water, and I wasn't moving my legs at all, just letting them float about together, and she was telling me about a friend who was working for Baz Luhrmann and had been since she finished university. She went on and on about all the places this friend had traveled and told some out of school stories that the first friend shouldn't have told and mine shouldn't have repeated. And I thought I am so envious and I said, with equal sincerity, "wow, I am so glad that's not me."

But I do miss Sydney, and not even for the story of what I was, or wanted to be there.

Tomorrow Patty and I will go to the Hewitt reunion.

I'm so preoccupied with other matters (Bristol) that I find it hard to care. Although, I would be very happy if Elyse is there, as she was my very first friend I had a fandom with, and there are a few other people I would like to see because they were always kind. I am looking forward to seeing the space, particularly, to see how it has changed, to see to what degree it is as I remembered. And, I have practiced what to say if anyone apologizes to me for my school years as they have to my mother; it's all the very definition of awkward turtle.

I have also become both more and less concerned about what I am going to wear. It occurs to me that anything I show up in will seem as a costume to them, because I don't wear the Upper East Side uniform and because I was never supposed to be beautiful. That said, being as it is Hewitt and the Upper East Side, I can expect that nearly everyone there will, in fact, be thinner and richer than me, which isn't quite the equation with which I usually deal with the world.

Anyway, I'm too busy and I have too much typing to do, that I'm not even going to bother putting on fake nails. They can discuss my diseased hands all they want; I'm busy writing the world.

It occurs to me that so much of the "Is Elena Kagan a lesbian?" discussion has very little to do with homosexuality, and everything to do with straight-up sexism (not that the two aren't nearly always linked). It's not "Oh my god does she fuck women?" It's "how could someone who doesn't have a dick and has never had one in her even try to be the equal of men?" It leaves me nauseated.

The Arizona ban on ethnic studies in public schools has been signed into law. Would anyone like to tell me now that Arizona is not operating from a racist position?

Feminism means more than "women doing stuff" and it means more than just advocating for women. As far as I'm concerned the idea of a Tea Party feminist is an oxymoron.

In New York City, minorities are nine times more likely to be stopped and frisked, but they are not found to be violating the law in these stops with any more frequency than white New Yorkers.

Cameron/Clegg RPF via The Guardian. Proving, once again, even though this is remarkably unclever, that RPF can have a role in critical dialogue.

West Wing fans may be disturbed to note this observation from Peter David.

Remember

deza who had to move abruptly and had to have her cat fostered? Well kitty needs to get home now, and she needs help to do it.

Last night we started S3 of Angel. And now we know where the crack in Torchwood comes from. Vampire pregnancy, WHUT? And what the fuck happened to Wesley's hair? It's HORRIBLE. HORRIBLE. At least Cordelia's hair has recovered from its weird, indecisive S2 chaos. Also, Lorne is love.