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Advancing the Plot
Aug. 25th, 2025 07:59 amAgain, two dreams, strangely overlain in the same dream space...
In Dream 1, I was the custodian of two little boys. One of them was my son, though whether it was the six-year-old Ichabod or the six-year-old RTT I could not say. I had arranged a playdate, though I'd neglected to tell the parents of the little boy who wasn't mine about the playdate.
I was driving that little boy to his parents' house.
I was driving a school bus, and I was very nervous because we had to go over a bridge that was kind of like the San Francisco Bay Bridge in that it had the craziest set of on ramps.
Except I was driving the bus through a field. It was night, very dark. I suddenly realized: The school bus's headlights aren't on!!! Didn't crash but careened on the grass to a stop. And wondered: Am I going to be arrested?
In Dream 2, I was a courtesan, and my client was an extremely old, extremely rich man. Very pleasant man! I enjoyed talking and flirting with him, and I did not have to have sex with him because he preferred to pleasure himself while I watched: In his right hand, he held a volume of Thucydides (I kid you not!) from he read aloud, while with his left hand, he touched himself.
I wondered whether I should sidle up to him and give him a blow job. How would that work, exactly? Would he even get hard? How would the dick of a really, really, really ancient man look anyway?
And then I woke up.
###
I did phone & text a lot yesterday—with Jeanna, who now that I'm not in my snit anymore, wants to check in once a week 'cause that, apparently, is what sisters do; with Booter, who'd found an archival 19th century photograph of the part of Oakland where her house now sits. With others—you know who you are.
I finished one Remunerative project & sent the invoice.
So, now I can spend the next week having anxiety attacks: What if they don't pay the invoice? This is ever the plight of the freelancer! Though there's no reason to think they won't pay the invoice: They've been paying them for the past six years.
I managed to get Grazia off the front porch and into the house where she is now sitting next to Daria on Neal's piano bench having an enigmatic conversation about Rachmaninoff that does absolutely nada to advance the plot.
It was a grey, grey day, so naturally, I was in a grey, grey mood.
There are patches in the clouds today through which the sun is streaming weakly, so I'm in a happier place.
In Dream 1, I was the custodian of two little boys. One of them was my son, though whether it was the six-year-old Ichabod or the six-year-old RTT I could not say. I had arranged a playdate, though I'd neglected to tell the parents of the little boy who wasn't mine about the playdate.
I was driving that little boy to his parents' house.
I was driving a school bus, and I was very nervous because we had to go over a bridge that was kind of like the San Francisco Bay Bridge in that it had the craziest set of on ramps.
Except I was driving the bus through a field. It was night, very dark. I suddenly realized: The school bus's headlights aren't on!!! Didn't crash but careened on the grass to a stop. And wondered: Am I going to be arrested?
In Dream 2, I was a courtesan, and my client was an extremely old, extremely rich man. Very pleasant man! I enjoyed talking and flirting with him, and I did not have to have sex with him because he preferred to pleasure himself while I watched: In his right hand, he held a volume of Thucydides (I kid you not!) from he read aloud, while with his left hand, he touched himself.
I wondered whether I should sidle up to him and give him a blow job. How would that work, exactly? Would he even get hard? How would the dick of a really, really, really ancient man look anyway?
And then I woke up.
###
I did phone & text a lot yesterday—with Jeanna, who now that I'm not in my snit anymore, wants to check in once a week 'cause that, apparently, is what sisters do; with Booter, who'd found an archival 19th century photograph of the part of Oakland where her house now sits. With others—you know who you are.
I finished one Remunerative project & sent the invoice.
So, now I can spend the next week having anxiety attacks: What if they don't pay the invoice? This is ever the plight of the freelancer! Though there's no reason to think they won't pay the invoice: They've been paying them for the past six years.
I managed to get Grazia off the front porch and into the house where she is now sitting next to Daria on Neal's piano bench having an enigmatic conversation about Rachmaninoff that does absolutely nada to advance the plot.
It was a grey, grey day, so naturally, I was in a grey, grey mood.
There are patches in the clouds today through which the sun is streaming weakly, so I'm in a happier place.
