sundries

- I dreamed Patty and I went to Australia. This is, no doubt, because schpahky sent me a thing about a contest to do a trailer for Australia and win a trip and the opportunity to meet Baz Luhrmann. I wish I knew anything at all about editing. Because this would be a fixation of epic proportions.

- It seems I now have a dream-city version of Sydney, because when I dream of it, I always go to the same places which doesn't exist. Even a cash machine, where I also hit the wrong button first, and wind up with some Korean won.

- I woke up with the realization that I can take the coat to the tailor all of fencing swears by -- they took in the legs of some pants for Sangsook by like 6 sizes or something.

I find, believe it or not, going to the tailor in general traumatic. Like dentsists and doctors and the hair and makeup epople on films, they always seem to tut-tut, to tell you why what you want is impossible and to explain why you are a bad person. I find it harrowing.

But I also just want to get this done, and not be laughed at me being a girl drowning in a greatcoat. I want to stand there smiling at myself -- stupid and smug -- in the mirror while the do the little thing with the bulb and the chalk about where the hem should be. I tried it on again this morning -- it really is rad. It's also heavy as hell. I'm going to need to learn to walk in it like I don't feel that, like its weight makes me taller not smaller.

I need to decide on (get ready to laugh at me) the appropriate BPAL to mak e a sachet with and leave in the bag with the coat -- which remarkably doesn't smell nearly as agrieved as 50+-year-old wool should smell, but still needs to be addressed both for narrative and practical reasons. Alas, going through my BPALs, my response has largely been no and various character names from other fandom. So I may be on the hunt.

- Last night it rained ferociously, and I did a lot of writing and the world felt very strange. Today there is sun, and it seems odd that the night was.

- Off to do some work and then babysit my father. I don't like this situation at all.

(no subject)

Greetings from my parents house.

Some of this is annoying simply because it is annoying. Some of it is annoying because my father can be a real difficult case. But a lot of this is annoying simply because I have isses.

My mother thought he'd be able to make his own lunch, and, I think, he could have, but he asked me to do it (only after did he ask if it was okay for me to touch bread, which isn't really not -- I had to keep washing my hands every two seconds).

Making a sandwich for my father -- well, it's ridiculous. The ingredients have to go on in the right order (I put mayo on the turkey instead of on the bread and that was wrong and so forth). Anyway, that's not the point. The point is I was furious, feeling like I'd only gotten stuck doing this because I'm the girl, which makes no sense as I'm the only child. There's no brother leaving such tasks to the womenfolk. Just me. But it enraged me, the woman's work of it. This is not a good sign for my continued mental health in all this.

Nor, is my mother calling on her lunch break panicking because I didn't pick up the phone until the machine caught it first and I could hear who it was -- my parents always screen calls, ever since a kid I my class when I was 12 or 13 called to tell my parents I was a cocksucking whore (if only my life had been so interesting). I follow the rules of their fear-based existence and they panic, but taking charge of this thing is the last thing I want to do -- not today, not yet.

The Euro is dropping. My father says maybe he and my mother can get to Paris one more time. I talk to everyone about death; I sit beside it. But I don't know how to do that, mainly because my father isn'y dying, at least on no more accelerated a schedule than any of the rest of us. He's just recovering. This isn't false optimism, this is merely, I will not consign someone to be dying for years, simply due to their worldview and age.

I'm just too ornery for this, to sit here and listen to my father suggest I write non-fiction over fiction because it's better, morrally, to suggest I don't take up flying again because it will worry my mother, and to tell me over and over than I'm a good girl. Also, he keeps asking me why I don't have my own TV show yet, and god, where do you start with that?