dream_woman epitome of incomprehensibility Her name was Elise, though she didn't look like any Elise I knew. Throughout the dream she retained a fairly consistent appearance: brown straight shoulder-length hair, pale skin with pink undertones, and green-grey-blue eyes like water, but kinder. Water can be fairly indifferent. I wasn't just attracted to her because she had four breasts sometimes, the second pair under the first - no, I was in love with her because I was in love with her. She was Elise. I was in love with Elise. It was a fact of the dream. I was curious about the breasts, though, and she was willing to give me a look. Then I remembered David, so I invited them both into what looked like a bathroom without a toilet, upon which he proceeded to initiate a discussion about philosophy. His eyes said, "Look, you told me threesomes would be awkward in real life." Mine: "Which this is clearly not? I mean, we could at least make out a little?" (Fine, talk about Merleau-Ponty and pointillism, but I think you're just putting those two together because of alliteration.) 220227 ... e_o_i I'm sitting with David, looking at the night-bright lights of the city in the distance and trying to remember the name of something music-related. "Sabaton" is what comes out. I laugh because whatever I'm thinking of is completely different. "No, not Sabaton; they sing about World War 1." (Our_song, too.) I look hard at a distant office building, rectangular like a ruler or like the old-fashioned music cabinet that David turned into in another dream. Suddenly I have the uncomfortable consciousness that I'm lost in my own thoughts and he'll think I'm absorbed in myself, think I'm not paying attention to him. But the scene changes. I'm in bed - my bed, but bigger - next to a woman. She's no one I've met in real life, but I know her name is Bella. Her black hair goes down about to her shoulders and she has turquoise eyeshadow on her lids. These eyes look at me with such trust. Adoration. Tenderness. Such that I'm convinced I must be in love with her too, even if I didn't know that before. I turn and kiss her, leaning into her. This accelerates a feeling of desire but also a sense of losing myself. Odd. I turn back. Her turquoise-fringed gaze, loving. A thought pops up: "...and she's 12 years younger than you..." I look at her. How? She can't be only 23. It's not just the idea that East Asian people look younger than White ones; it's that I know her, and she's around 30, and she can relate to me: those eyes say everything. And then I realize: of course. The minds and bodies of David and I have melded into one person, so she's 12 years younger than him. Obvious! That's why I wasn't worrying that I already had a partner. We're here, together. We're one person, for the time being. (Some angel or demon must have taken my line "I'm too uncoordinated for threesomes" and been all "...but, but metempsychosis!" Is that you, James Joyce??) 231229 ... e_o_i ...or "awkward in real life" from my first blathe. That works too. Freddie Mercury: "Is this the real life? ...No. No, it isn't." 231229 ... raze i was one last_night. i sat in a waiting room with two other women, the three of us with our arms tied behind our backs, tongues made mute by shorter loops of the same rope. we were all warned against trusting the charming west german man with an american accent. our failure to listen led us here. we somehow found a way to free ourselves and knocked out the men holding us hostage. instead of leaving or calling the cops, we stuck around to listen to a long, rambling story from the cracked actor who betrayed us. he talked about the drug dealer he idolized, and how his carelessness was his undoing. every once in a while he would grab my nose and gently tilt my head to the side like i was a dog he was playing with. i didn't think to try and get a look at my face in a mirror. i almost never do when i'm anyone other than myself. 250201 ... e_o_i If I go to a "sapphic Saturday" at a bookstore (which I didn't in real_life, being tired of travel at that moment), I'll turn exclusively lesbian. Ta-dah! And I am...still miserable about the breakup of an almost five-year relationship. I decide I should start dating again, but I'm unsure if I should ask my crush out because she's eight years younger than me. It's not such an age_gap that it would be creepy of me, but I fear we'd have trouble relating to each other. (That is, things are EXACTLY the same except two people have different genders now.) But the funny part starts when I meet up with the younger woman, who has dark hair, long and straight (but not damp as if she's just washed it - this will be relevant soon.) She knows my feelings instinctively; we both lean in for a kiss. But her lips are wet - not just on the inside but on the outside. It feels strange, so I draw back and see that her whole face is wet. The problem with younger people is that some of them have constantly wet faces. (Idiomatically, they MIGHT be wet behind the ears. Not their whole faces.) 250929 ... e_o_i Then, last night, I met someone in a craft or literary meetup at a restaurant shaped like a big wood cabin and I *knew* she was The One. She was short, like me, and had an elfish sort of haircut, but the main draw was her laugh and sense of warmth. I knew she was a kind person and a bit more extroverted than me. She kissed my hand and laughed. "I won't kiss you now," meaning on the face; "I'll save that for later." Then she saved a restaurant booth for us and we were talking...I marveled at being on a date...but then my dad showed up with an argument. I had categorized something wrong. I needed to go back and fix my error. Did he disapprove of my date? Or was it really a problem of... my memory is hazy on the specifics of the issue, but it had something to do with libraries or paper cutouts or math. Her name was Sesha, though. I would remember that. When I got home, I wrote down her name many times on a paper, growing frustrated that I found it hard to get right. Sesha, not Sasha or Shesa. (See dream_names.) The next time, I was pleased I could recognize her. Her hair didn't seem quite the same. We were walking by the sea. We seemed to be somewhere in the Maritimes. The third time was indoors, in something like a conference centre. Her hair was almost white-blond, but it was still her. A relief; I feared I would lose her (maybe I'd woken up briefly in the interim). "Sesha," I said. She looked puzzled. "My name is Desha." Was she still the same person? I was pretty sure she *had* been Sesha. ... This is like a line I had the first time I tried to write a "realistic" novel, the one I tentatively titled A Beginner's Guide to Joyce. Joyce, in her late 20s, is writing a doctorate thesis on Finnegans Wake. Her younger sister Ally looks at the file on her computer and summarizes the main point of what she reads - the thesis of the thesis - in four words: "The names keep changing." 250929 what's it to you? who go blather from