A funky dreamscape.

I had this reoccurring dream again last night. It’s not nearly as interesting as the one where I’m going to work or class stark, bare-assed naked, but I haven’t had one of those in years. Plus Eugie-the-dreamer is always amused with that dream rather than mortified, which I think is what’s supposed to be the requisite emotion. (Hmm. What does that say about my psyche? Mostly that I’m not into dream analysis, I suspect.)

Anyway, my dream is that I’m getting ready for finals (Note: I’ve been out of school for years) and I realize that I’ve just plum completely forgotten about a class–Biology. Now why is it always Biology?–all semester long. And I’m all panic-stricken because there’s this big test coming up and I haven’t attended class all semester. Then, when I try to either 1. vainly attempt to make up the whole semester in one review sitting or 2. beg the professor for more time, I can’t remember where the classroom is and I can’t find my schedule book that will (ostensibly) tell me. Of course, if I had my schedule with me in the first place, I assume I wouldn’t have forgotten about the class. But why, for godsakes, am I dreaming about missed classes? It always leaves me with the vague feeling that I’ve forgotten something when I wake up.

I’d much rather have that sex dream where I’m flying over this forest of phallic trees . . . .

What’s really ironic is that I think Freud and his theories are all tom-quackery. Snarf.

Entry whatever. Who’s counting?

Okay, so it’s been–what?–a week since I updated this. In that time, I’ve just about fully recovered from the whatever that hit my system and knocked me out for the count. I hate being sick. And I hate that weak, wobbly feeling I get after doing nothing but lie on the bed or the couch for days on end. But, that’s over and done with. Hurray!

To celebrate, Matthew and I had a caloriefest/moviefest last night. Sushi for dinner, brownies and ice cream camped out in front of the big screen for dessert, and coffee with ice cream in it for after hours. Mmmm. I can’t believe we ate nearly a whole half gallon of ice cream between the two of us.

We watched “Sabrina”–the 1995 one with Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford–and “American Beauty.” 1999 was a truly amazing year for movies. What the hell happened? 2000 was so lame. Anyway, “American Beauty” is just an amazing movie. We saw it when it came out amidst the slew of other 1999 films and it holds up well to repeated viewing. I wish I could write like Alan Ball, drool.

Taxes, belly dancing, and ANWR

Conflicting emotions leads to vast tracts of confused brain wrinklies.

Okay, first of all, we’re getting money back from taxes. Blink. Guess paying two mortgages for a lot of last year really helped us (not, btw, something I’d recommend even with the tasty tax refund ensuing). Hurray!

Next, I recently found out that I’m belly dancing for some heart/cardiac charity event on the 19th, but it’s not going to be my solo, Rohee, but rather the troupe number. But, get this, with only one other troupe member. It was staged for six dancers and in a week we need to have it ready as a duet. Furthermore, I didn’t think we had rehearsals scheduled for this week at all. Urk.

Finally: George W. wants to open up ANWR to oil drilling, prompted by Iraq’s recent 30-day “nope, you don’t get none.” Even though if they started drilling today, they wouldn’t get a drop of oil for a decade. Even though ANWR is a beautiful, pristine(ish) haven for caribou, polar bears, and other wildlife. Even though there’s not enough oil in the reserve to make a spot of difference in the economic/oil situation. Even though Iraq is only our 6th largest oil supplier. Even though I see squadrons of gas-glugging SUVs and mini-vans littering the roadways when smaller, more fuel-efficient cars exist. Splutter!

Argh. I’m conflicted. Am I happy? Trepidatious? Or livid? It’s really hard being all three at the same time, but I’m working on it.

Doh! Or: “Yes, I’ve lost count.”

Well, I went to belly dancing last night and, there was no class. Doh! The session starts next week. Pointless travel time = one and a half hours of my life I’m never getting back. Damn.

And we’re going to Mr. Tax Preparer to get our taxes done today. Shudder. This is the first year that I “get” to pay taxes as a writer too. Joy.

Calmblueocean. Calmblueocean. Calmblueocean.

Tuesday blahs

I always seem to get these murk-mood doldrums after big, fun weekends. So here I am post-Fantasm and post “Nomadic Breezes” and I’m in a funk. It’s nothing dire, just a blah-don’t-wanna-do-anything-or-see-anyone sort of feeling. I skipped out on yoga last night and crashed on the couch instead. Tonight’s a new belly dance session. Guess I’ll drag myself to that although I don’t really feel like it.

Maybe I just need a swift, hot infusion of caffeine. Better living through chemistry. Where’s my coffee mug?

Entry 3. And I haven’t lost count yet.

Daylights savings my red-rimmed, desiccated eyeballs, hah! I just looove losing an hour in the middle of my weekend. And still with the early morning wakefulness. Even though computer-darling says it’s well nigh 9:30, I know better. Twitch. I guess, technically, 9:30 (8:30, dammit!) isn’t all that early, but it really is when you don’t get to bed until past 4 am. Mr. Sandman = way too flighty. Someone oughta paperclip that fellah to a pillar and superglue his footsies to the rug.

But hey, the show was utter bravura! I was so a virtuoso of belly dance! Hee. That is, I didn’t trip over my hem and fall on my nose. The troupe number was fine, ‘cept it was more of a warm-up than anything else–being only like three minutes long. But the solo is what I was really intent about and that went by in an absolute blur. I’ve got snapshot memory-visuals of faces and a couple moments of my dance, but I was in such a transcendent state–read nerves/anticipation/euphoria–that not much made it past short term memory. This has happened to me a couple times before–at another dance solo in Springfield, IL and the time Matthew and I went skydiving–and it’s real funky. Brains are perplexing critters, ain’t they?

But okay, highlights, or rather the only parts I can remember:

My entrance with veil: perfect. I don’t usually dance with a silk veil, but the difference between silk and chiffon is like dancing with liquid water versus trawling for bats with three yards of butterfly net. I borrowed a silk veil for the performance; damn but I wish we had gobs of money-bucks so I could buy one of my very own. They’re decadently priced, but so much swoofier to dance with. Alas! Alack!

Next: What the Hell? Were there no men sitting in the front row?? There’s this cuter-than-belief section of the opening choreography where I drop my veil over an audience person’s shoulders and I was really looking forward to lighting up some unsuspecting XYs eyes, but there wasn’t a single male in the front row! Whazzat about? But hey it was okay. A fellow dancer-in-arms not in the show was up front and I tossed her my veil and the crowd loved it. But where or where were all the eager lads?

Penultimate: seeing Matthew in the back, watching me with a big, proud grin on his face. I just love my hubby. He got shafted into volunteering to staff the ticket counter (the poor thing!) so missed most of the show. I’m inexpressibly glad he was able to duck in for long enough to catch my solo.

Finis: A dim awareness of the crowd clapping along with the music, random eye contact (it’s all about the eye contact), the last chorus section when I knew I’d made it through nearly the whole damn thing without forgetting a step, and hey–my gawd!–I’m done. Applause and bows. I so get off on the sound of hands snap-clack-clacking for me. Bask, bask.

Sadly, Matthew wasn’t able to take pictures since he was stuck way in the back. I saw flashbulbs going off like mad throughout my solo, but I didn’t recognize any of the shutterbugs. Pook. I would have liked a memory de perpetua of that. Sigh.

And that was my grand performance. Hurray!

Now, I’m starving. Wonder if we got yummy breakfast fixins . . . .

Toodles ’till later,
Ms. Fantasm 2002 (Yep, that’s still a rush.)

Entry 2. And no, I’m not going to keep numbering them.

I hate early morning insomnia. I’m going to be zombielike tonight when I need to have my brain on high-speed and not cranked down to clunk. Damn. But at least the dress rehearsal went smoothly last night, or as smoothly as can be expected. I screwed up the choreography on the troupe number, but that’s okay ’cause the beauty of dancing with a troupe is that there’s a bunch of other dancers that the audience might be looking at which ain’t me when I flub, and I can glance over at them to find my place. Snarf. I was just getting my choreography mishaps out of the way in rehearsal, yeah, uh huh. We ran through it twice and the second time was much better. But on a happy-joy-joy, the solo went well.

I get to shake and shimmy in front of a couple hundred people tonight. Yay! Exhibitionist? Moi?

And Matthew’s Fantasm ’02 review is up! Wish we had more pictures, though.

Aghftpth. I hate that burny-eye-I’m-so-tired-but-just-can’t-sleep feeling. Stupid circadian rhythms.

Entry 1. What have I gotten myself into?

Has every chickee in the world written in a diary? Gawd the last time I wrote a journal entry about me was for some lame English class in college. Before that, I still had pink clothing, some with frills. My mother thought I was some sort of Asian Barbie doll; I swear. And her taste in wardrobing was bad enough to blind a flamingo. I seem to have recovered fairly unscathed, though. Or perhaps that explains the preponderance of black black black in my closet.

Mostly recovered from Fantasm (which ROCKED). We had so much fun Matthew threw his back out. Poor Matthew! But, on an up note, he’s been spending a lot of his down time putting together his Fantasm 2002 convention review for our website. And I’ve got a tiara! I never thought I’d own a tiara. Shiny shiny. Wonder if I can stick “Ms. Fantasm 2002” on my resume? Um. Probably shouldn’t. Down that path lies clanging metal leg traps.

Getting ready for my belly dance show tomorrow night. Had a scary moment on Wednesday when I ran through the choreography for the first time in a week for my solo number. Apparently the brain cells I killed over the weekend were those shimmies. Urk. But, thank godlettes, I do appear to have redundant neural pathways. A couple run throughs and I’m back on track. Dress rehearsal tonight. Makeup like greasepaint in bright, searing colors. Whee.

Don’t have any ideas for new stories hammering on my door. Damn. But I can’t complain. Managed to crank out and complete three of ’em in as many weeks. That counts as productive. Really it does. Maybe if I really screw up my solo tomorrow, the staggeringly traumatic experience will fuel my muse. Something to look forward to. Uh huh.

Must. Eat. Lunch.

Ta ta from Ms. Fantasm 2002! (Nope, still not tired of calling myself that.)