theladyrose: (Default)
You know you need a social life when you dream about the object of your film score fangirlish idolatry. And it's a pessimistic one involving Caribbean revolutionaries. Must I be this cynical even in my subconscious?

On a very different note: it's sort of scary to know what was on my future classmates' college applications and have no idea who they are as people.

But on the bright side, the guys who will be my future classmates seem to be impressed that I know so much about James Bond. Go figure.
theladyrose: (Default)
I keep dreaming of...writing LJ entries/e-mails/community forum posts. And it's confusing me quite a bit as I can never quite remember what I've actually done.

So if I accidentally make references to messages that I dreamt that I sent, I do apologize.

I've officially signed on as director of mind control for [livejournal.com profile] leflyingolive's future Cult of the Flying Olive. My favorite co-editor ever, Alex, is the head chemist. And together the three of us shall manipulate many alienated college students into giving us money. Pah, who needs to take over the world when you can turn everybody into your minions?

(For the record, all I ever learned about cults and mind control came from Gregg Hurwitz. I do not endorse his books as I have the general impression that he's the Dan Brown of thriller novels. That, and I wasn't terribly impressed with him when covering him for a feature article this past summer.)
theladyrose: (Default)
"Loneliness becomes a lover, solitude a darling sin." Where did I read that before? Who wrote it down? It expressed exactly what I felt, and how I felt since I was a child, until I forced myself to ‘fit in’, and be a ‘good girl’ [...] It’s just that all true individuals are lonely people. That’s no credit. On the contrary. Who wants to be a useful member of the clan, has to be able to give as well as to take. The fact that I seemed to be so much happier when I was alone, only indicated a wrong, neurotic strain.

I am becoming increasingly impressed with the little that I have read of Ian Fleming. The quotation above, which seems to rather suit me at times, is from the perspective of Vivienne Michel of the Spy Who Loved Me.

I had two weird dreams last night. The first was something of a Prisoner/Carnival of Souls crossover in which I was stationed in a house that looks like my old Stanford dorm, Grove Lasuen, with a bunch of people I knew and a few who I recognized but didn't know so well. I can't remember who the exact people are now, but possibly some of my old writing camp friends might've been there in a different appearance. We all had some special secret knowledge that we were supposed to get from everybody else without anyone else finding out our own secrets. I don't even remember what my secrets were supposed to be. Various people my age were undergoing a similar mission in the other dorms, and we were allowed to go over to the other dorms to hang out and relax. Essentially any dorm that you weren't living in was a safe zone, a sanctuary. The weird thing was that occasionally everything would go silent and pause, and that person was free to walk around and figure stuff out, and after a few minutes the rest of the world would un-freeze. I eventually realized that whenever anyone said the word, "real," the described occurence would happen. Then there was this big party thing in a place that resembled a department store; it was rather like the Christmas gifts party with the Angels of Death in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. But instead of having a weird German lady chaperoning the event, there were all of my school's teachers. Don't I sound afraid of the administration now? I revealed my hard-earned knowledge to my secret superior, a guy who exactly looked like the Fraz, my English teacher of all people, but who had a different sounding voice. The guy who looked like the Fraz then sent me on some sort of mission in which I turned into a little white light-brown haired girl. Just imagine the end bits at the hotel in Roald Dahl's The Witches with a little light brunette girl with pigtails instead of a mouse, and that's sort of what the rest of my dream was like. I had to help eliminate a bunch of double agents, methinks, but the details are a little fuzzy.

For some reason TV shows and stuff that I really like get incorporated into my dreams. Gah, the brainwashing influence of mass media! The Prisoner was right!
theladyrose: (Default)
Operation Lost Music is starting to fail rather miserably. I still can't find a single one of my missing soundtracks, and I even bothered to look downstairs in the study. Ergh. And I promised my Hungarian friend to send him tracks from the original OHMSS CD. Argh!

It apparently takes my entire family to open up one locked door. How...amusing. Or maybe sad is more appropriate.

It's nice to know that people do read what I write when I'm foruming. Then it depresses me that I have livelier online conversations than spoken ones. But I don't really mind too much.

I had a really interesting dream last night when somehow I was being manipulated into being some kind of weird agent employed by my evil biology and ethnic voices teachers. But I knew that they were up to some evil scheme, and really I joined to reveal their secret scheme. They had this weird disguise thing where one would sort of turn into the other, so I'm not sure whether it was JW or JF who was really the boss. Rather amusing and quite interesting. I swam a lot and ended up floating around some sort of spa tub thingy in the floor for what seemed like an hour. Afterwards I went over to the locker room, which magically expanded to be three times as big, and joined the rest of the class in eating pizza. It was vaguely slumber party like and I got to talk to lots of people I normally don't get to talk to with most of the lights off.

And then supposedly the next morning I was on the Casti campus stealing various folders from various classrooms for my boss person. But really I was just trying to figure out what. Sophie was outside by the lemon tree singing opera for some reason, and a huge crowd was around her. I vaguely remember hearing some sort of top-secret conversation among two teachers, I don't remember which ones, in the cafeteria while everyone else was listening to Sophie. I managed to sneak off and went looking for my own file and read my next instructions. I was about to break into a locked filing cabinet to read my dossier when I woke up.

Funny that I never got to read my file; it seems rather significant. I've been having some "hey, do I really have an identity?" issues lately.
theladyrose: (Default)
My eye feels like someone keeps blowing on it. It's weird. Either or that, or someone accidentally pours liquid mercury on it. It feels kind of cold and watery for some inexplicable reason.

I keep having these weird dreams that I can't quite remember, but for some reason I think they're significant somehow if only I managed to find the rest of the shards of memory. I manage to retain the vaguest fragments, one or two images at best. And now I can hardly remember what happened exactly in my waking life and when, they keep merging into each other. Either my waking life is rather surreal or my dreams are realistic or something in between. The one thing I can sort of remember is seeing blood on my toothbrush of all things, but I can't remember exactly when or how that happened. I'd like to figure out what this all means because I know there's something that I'm still missing. 'Tis peculiar. I vaguely remember something about a house and a very modern kitchen, like that at the Tanners. But the details fade quickly.

The lyrics for "Mrs. Robinson" make absolutely no sense if you're thinking about the actual Mrs. Robinson of The Graduate. Supposedly the song was originally about Eleanor Roosevelt, and then they randomly changed the name when the filmmakers asked to use their songs in the movie, which explains (well, sort of) the reference to the candidate and Joe di Maggio (sp?).
theladyrose: (Default)
Since Friday:

-My grandmother left for Hong Kong with my aunt. Yay that she's doing much better.

-I've slept in my own bed for the first time in a week (too many relatives, not enough beds; I end up sleeping on the floor in my parents' room. It wasn't that bad, though.)

-Franck the Quebecian Anarchist (apparently he's not one anymore, but the nickname has stuck) gave a spiel sounding an awful lot like that of a tourism bureau's to encourage me to visit Montreal in February.

-I discovered that the Avengers episode "The Joker" is like a color version of the previous episode, "The House that Jack Built" except that Steed ends up saving Emma's life. Awww, how sweet.

-I downloaded the font that's used in the Village in the Prisoner. Ooh, my ringer will get to see this in the letters that I send to her for the ringing process. How special.

-Said ringing process is a twisted combination of a modern music history lesson, a Prisoner episode, and a really amateurish adaptation of Sophie's World.

-I finally got to talk to Adric for a long period of time. Mixed confused feelings about life and relationships. It's lovely to be able to talk to someone who I normally don't get to talk to much.

-A pathetic, slimy but good-looking freak in England tried hitting on me. The attempted pick up lines were nowhere near as bad as Franck's, in Austin's (the pathetic freak's) defense. I vaguely know him, but at least his French is decent. What is it with foreign blond guys anyway???? It's some kind of massive conspiracy against me.

-I had a really cool dream that was almost entirely in French in the beginning. It was very atmospheric, with really light pencil lead-gray clouds, overcast, some lingering shadows. It felt like a juxtaposition of black and white and the buildings were all muted colors, though certain modern advertisments and things stood out vividly in the background. I was wandering around Paris (which in certain neighborhoods looked a lot like New York) and had an apartment there and met a lot of cool people, especially this one black woman who reminds me of my old friend Patrice. The uncool bit was when a old depressed Parisian bum wandered into my beautiful apartment, looked at what was his childhood flat, and died of heart failure in what was my bedroom. Then, inexplicably, I call an ambulance, make sure that the man's family buries him, and go over to some kind of trendy clothes boutique to meet the black woman who reminds me of Patrice but who can speak beautiful French since she works there. The real Patrice works at Disneyland, actually. Then we end up going over to what looks like the Orpheum Theater in San Francisco so that my classmates and I can get fitted for some kind of big musical revue Broadway-type show that we'll be performing. I switched over to English at this point, and the Patrice look-alike had to go back to the clothing store to work or else she'd be fired. It's like the 8th grade musical except that we don't sing, and the costumes were really lovely. For some reason in my dreams I remember fabrics very vividly, and this very lustrous heavy red satin material keeps reappearing in my dreams. For some inexplicable reason the music we were dancing to was the overture of the Mel Brooks musical, The Producers, and we kept on dancing to an instrumental version of "Springtime for Hitler" (I can't figure that one out) For some reason generic parents were watching our first dress rehersal, though we weren't performing for many more weeks. The Orpheum Theatre set was actually the inside of the school Chapel, and I walked up with Sophia (we kept on making snarky comments about having to follow such ridiculous choreography during rehersal) to the language area so that she could meet with her French teacher. However, said French teacher was actually the middle school Spanish teacher. They talked about various things and I kept looking out the window and saw Paris, rather than the circle. Hmmm. I was tempted to mention that the reason why I didn't finish my French essay was because a mysterious French man had appeared in my apartment (it was mine, all mine! My family lived next door, but there wasn't enough room for me there, and they wanted me to have my own place) and died over the weekend. Sophia's French teacher, who for some reason was also mine, took this all very calmly as if this was an ordinary occurence and let me turn in my essay a day late without penalty. Sophia and I left the language building and got a sip of water outside, which had turned into the regular school grounds again.

Somethign else happened at the end that was quite interesting, except that I forgot it. Damn.
-I found the garage light circuit problem for math ridiculously easy. Now I'm suspicious that I seriously mucked something up.
-I discovered that the word "subway station" is not in my Oxford Hachette French-English dictionary. Those dingles.

I am really screwed on my Proustian essay as I'm just starting it. My eloved free period right before lunch will hopefully save me...I HOpe.

Chomskyan is apparently a legitimate dictionary adjective.

I still have yet to finish my damned essay. Erp. Maybe I should stick with the sucky slightly incomplete one I originally did.
theladyrose: (Default)
Had a strange dream about a kangaroo looking like the Terminator that could swim and was teaching elementary school children how to read. Maybe they're sticking subliminal messages into those recall election ads.

Me, if I could actually vote, I'd vote for Camejo. The whole "let's tax the rich" thing is repeated too much but his platform actually seems quite reasonable and he seems to know what he's doing. Rather nice for a gubernatorial candidate, really.

Though I think people are being rather cruel to Schwarzenegger. At least the guy has a degree in economics, and knows something about self-promotion. Really, if you can get the media eating out of your hand you've got it made.

Being a reporter can make you rather cynical about journalism. In all honesty I think most journalists are egotistical self-promoting scum. But so are many other people. It's just that if you can control the media you can control what people think, which is why I dislike journalists so much.

Funny thing is, I guess you could say that I am what I criticize.

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theladyrose

June 2010

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