A boring dream
July 14th, 2006 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I am standing on a dock by an idyllic ocean. It’s a very bright day but pleasantly cool. Things seem peaceful. A large sailboat is docking and I am suddenly a swimmer attempting to conceal myself by staying just under the hull of the boat. If the crew sees me, I will certainly be captured.
The swimming becomes trickier as it becomes necessary to avoid the small, floating mines that litter the water near the dock. By moving very slowly, I miss all of them and climb lightly ashore.
I then dash around the corner of a building and up onto a mountain, where my motion creates a bulge in the grass. I reach the top of the mountain, where the foliage clears and it is my job to throw small rocks at a metal object rooted at the center of the clearing.
Improvement exhibit
July 13th, 2006 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I am visiting an art school. After a short tour, I begin wandering around the facilities, observing the various art projects hung in the halls. The school is sort of white, plastic, and antiseptic; the art reflects this.
After some wandering, I lose myself in the complex and allow myself to wander. I eventually come across a long, totally deserted hallway. The wall to my right is divided into discrete columns with pictures, sculptures, and descriptions near torso-height in each. Just above head-height is a dinner-plate-sized stainless steel circle. Intuiting the purpose of the installation, I reach up and place my hand on the circle. I find myself improved in a way reflected, artistically, by the picture, sculpture, or description embedded below the circle.
The installation, it seems, is a collaborative effort: each student participating has created a mechanism for improving the viewer and some art that reflects that improvement. I become excited about the possibilities — who knows in what creative ways I might be improved by this exhibit?
Before I can test it, however, I wander away again. Soon, I’m in an entirely different part of the school trying to find my way back to the improvement installation. I run across some people relaxing in a hall who indicate subtly that my presence there is invasive (the feeling is like running across a hallway conversation while wandering at a debate tournament but more alienating). I ask them how to get where I am going. They point me to the opposite end of their hall, mentioning a portal.
Of course, the portal system! How could I have forgotten? I walk to the end of the hall — still bright white and immaculately clean — and through double doors. I move beside a ficus plant and see the portal, which looks like a mirror approximately two feet square. The process comes naturally but surprisingly: I stare at my reflection for a few seconds then reach out to touch the resulting pinpoint of light, concentrating deeply on where I want to end up.
I find myself in the hall with the improvement exhibit. The hall is now bustling with art students. Because I am at the opposite end of the hall, the installation is now on my left. I can’t seem to see it, though, obscured as it is by a low-hanging curtain. I ask a passing student but she only seems confused. I explain the exhibit. She becomes intrigued and we search for a while. Eventually, we divine that we can duck under the curtain to reach the various columns.
Please forgive them
July 12th, 2006 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I am in a tall, architecturally complex house with a charismatic artist who is somewhat like Tim Geaghan. We are sitting and talking in his attic when a group of people I know comes looking for someone. They are sort of implicitly welcome at the home but they nonetheless annoy the artist. I sense his annoyance and feel somewhat responsible. They make a ruckus running about on the complex architecture outside.
Daniel Cox is among them; he leaps from porch to porch gleefully.
Outrage and Relocation
July 10th, 2006 by Ariana Rose Taylor-Stanley; no comments
Caitlin Kleinschmidt was very upset over a particular author. She told us that this author wrote three trashy books a day, in the romance genre, focusing on four characters. The books traded off perspectives, but were manipulative because the reader got to know the characters too well and got hooked. The worst offense, though, was that, pretty far into the series (around book 32) the author killed off character 6. She then didn’t write for a very long time because of this, but on picking back up, the character was re-incorporated into the story as if he had never been killed. Caitlin found this outrageous.
I was given five minutes to back my belongings before moving to Ometepe for six months. My things were still in boxes, because I hadn’t unpacked them since moving into my dorm, which was just a big square room full of boxes. I began to worry about not having any long shorts anymore.
I was at some sort of outdoor camp. Abby and Mac King were there. I said hello to Abby, and asked if she remembered me. She said no. A friend (Lizzie? Adrian?) was staying in another part of this camp, set up differently from mine. There might have been plans to rearrange so that we were together.
Providing today’s entertainment
July 8th, 2006 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
I am sitting in Ms. Mars’ social studies class (a real class I had in Woodward) waiting for the lesson to begin. Everyone around me is so tall that most of the room is obscured.
Ms. Mars quiets down the class and introduces a musician who is sitting behind me and to my left. He will be providing today’s entertainment. As he begins to sing, I recognize him as the busker from Victoria who played Magnetic Fields songs (this guy exists and is rad). I turn to look at him but my classmates block my view.
He sings, accompanied by his acoustic guitar, “Love Is Lighter Than Air”, “I Thought You Were My Boyfriend”, and “Irma”. He thanks us and quickly walks out the door. The class applauds wildly, thinking him a genius, but I know that they are just unfamiliar with the grandness of Stephin Merritt.
Nightmare
July 7th, 2006 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
Ariana and I are partners in LD debate (not possible). I am completely unprepared; she is slightly prepared. I am wearing clothes one might wear out to eat but not a suit. I reason that this will probably suffice.
As we are about to walk into our room — our opponents and judges are already there — I decide that I could make a better impression with dress shoes. I change out of my All-Stars. Upon further reflection, I think that my pants go better with the Converses and change back.
It would be a bad idea for me to read the case because I did not write it. It would be a bad idea for me to try to argue the case because I haven’t thought out the intricacies. It’s time for our 1AC, however, so someone needs to read and Ariana hands the case to me. Anxiously, I stand up, acknowledge the timer, and begin.
I say the first few words on the sheet without really reading them. I can’t tell if what I just said was accurate or even grammatically correct. Somehow, my mind is not fully present — I have to hope that I’m making sense. I keep reading, joltingly slowly. I hope nobody can notice.
My mind clears. I look at the case. I have been reading the sentence fragments Ariana jotted down as an outline to a case; the speech was to be more or less ad-libbed (a good tactic if one can think). I look at the judges’ concerned, embarrassed expression. I wonder if I can just call off this disaster of a round.
An Easy Question
July 5th, 2006 by Elizabeth Dameron; no comments
Cynthia was preparing to kill me.
“Don’t take it personally. It could have been anybody. And I’ll be saving 20 goddamned good trees.”
She then proceeded to stab me in the thigh.
Here’s the wrath
July 5th, 2006 by Ariana Rose Taylor-Stanley; no comments
Last night:
My dad was trying to give me pointers on bicycle technique, but I was extremely grumpy and frustrated and everything he said seemed contrary so I whined and talked back really loudly even though we were in public.
He was telling me how to make a left turn correctly and he wanted me to turn tighter but when I did he told me not to do that in the street. I screamed at him that the last two times I had tried to make a tight left turn I had fallen off my bike (actually they were both right turns, and I knew this in my dream). The location changed from a street to an aisle at Rite Aid. Many people were staring. Eventually, I calmed down and apologized for behaving so outrageously, and woke up crying.
Night before last:
I wrote a love note, but realized before I gave it to its intended recipient that either they didn’t love me or they didn’t like a certain type of cookie. I would need to find someone new to receive it.
(There were more. I will try to remember them.)