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    About lucyoncolorado
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    01-04-2018
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    11-27-2017
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    11-10-2017
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    Recent Entries

    One Hundred Twenty-One

    by lucyoncolorado on 01-04-2018 at 04:45 PM
    In which I'm working in a restaurant...

    I'm working in a restaurant kitchen, frying bacon. Strips of frozen bacon are stuck together on wax paper. I pick up the entire block and throw it in a skillet, then try to fry it as if it were scrambled eggs. Some of the bacon burns; most of it remains frozen and fatty.

    In which I'm searching for property...

    I'm walking through downtown Houston with a realtor. There are small 100-year-old wooden and brick single-family homes scattered between the sky scrapers. The agent tells me that Houston is one of the few cities in the world where developers built around existing homes. The houses are mostly hollowed out shells needing tons of work. I keep telling the realtor that they are out of my price range. She responds by telling me how cheap they are- 450K to 500K for prime real estate in downtown is a steal. That may be, I tell her, but I don't have that kind of money. I shrug and think that realtors are never helpful.
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    One Hundred Twenty

    by lucyoncolorado on 12-12-2017 at 04:18 AM
    In which I visited SR, who lives in an astronaut training tower...

    SR had just moved into an apartment skyscraper that poked up into the clouds like on The Jetsons. The tower was spherical and hollow in the middle, a giant tube with floors that spiral up and around rather than stack on top of one another. SR had a nice view of the stratosphere from the windows of the exterior wall, and on the other side, she could look down into the empty ring of the tower interior. The tower was built this way so would-be space dwellers could train to live in zero gravity. We all understood that apartment units wrapped around a hollow tube stretching up into the sky are not subject to gravity. Obviously.

    SR was a part of the research team, committed to live in weightlessness among the astronauts and engineers who invent all the Really Important Stuff that humans will need for a comfortable life on Mars. She floated around the laboratories with a clip board and a stack of post-it notes, observing the experiments and asking questions. When she saw something she liked, SR wrote a few words on a brightly colored post-it, pulled the note from her clip board, and released it to float about the zero gravity like confetti. These were her patents.

    I was there to visit SR, and it wasn’t easy. The living units were closed to the public, though anyone was allowed inside the tower’s center where the laws of gravity functioned normally. Most people were content to just gather at the bottom of the inner ring and look up; it was like standing at the bottom of a well. But we’d planned a face-to-face meeting so I grabbed my backpack, strapped on my crampons, and started to scale the wall. There were grips and footholds all along the way, and by the magic of dream time, I was soon standing on SR's window ledge, miles up the interior of the tower, without much exertion. I knocked on her window.

    We talked through the glass with an attached telephone as if we were in a prison, only she levitated in zero gravity on one side while I perched on the increasingly small ledge on the other. Something wasn’t right. I told her that I thought the windowsill was shrinking. I looked down to the ground, miles beneath me, and had an attack of vertigo. When I looked back to her window, it was a small round ship’s porthole. Then the ledge beneath my feet completely disappeared, and I fell. I managed to catch the tip of my ice axe on the brass rim of her porthole window, and I dangled there by one arm.

    Luckily for me, SR owned a pair of boots with rocket boosters built into the heels, post-note patented Really Important Stuff, no doubt. Even in my subconscious, she needed a room just for her shoes. She zoomed out of a nearby window, fire blazing from her feet and smoke trailing behind her, and she grabbed my arm and rescued me. We flew up, up, up out of the tunnel until we broke out of the atmosphere altogether and looked back down on the planet.

    I said “That was as badass as when Leia and Han rescue Luke from Cloud City”. SR said “We’re like Superman and Lois flying above the earth.” The laws of physics are flexible in my dreamworld but pop culture is pretty stable, apparently.
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    One Hundred Nineteen

    by lucyoncolorado on 12-03-2017 at 02:59 PM
    In which Jeremy Corbyn is my grandpa...

    I'm baking cookies in the yellow kitchen at my grandmother's old house on LW. It's a winter evening, and there's a fire in the living room. Jeremy Corbyn is sitting in an armchair in the living room, wearing a sweater and reading a newspaper. I bring him a cup of spiced tea, then return to the kitchen to check on the cookies.
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    One Hundred Eighteen

    by lucyoncolorado on 11-11-2017 at 07:50 AM
    (more jetlag dreaming)

    In which I show off in front of people I knew as a teenager, then turn into a child...

    I'm in my childhood home once again. The dining room is a giant swimming pool. The only light in the room comes up through the water, a greenish glowing light that casts wave patterns on the dark walls. The room echoes with a bubbling sound, as if we are listening to an aquarium filter.

    S is sitting at one edge of the pool, leading a meeting about something very important. A couple dozen people are sitting on underwater benches as if they were all in a hot tub. They have clip boards and are taking notes. S is making a presentation. I should be in attendance. I feel guilty for arriving late. There are a few other stragglers and she calls us over without naming any of us individually. I know she's done this so that I'm not singled out. I walk around the perimeter of the pool, but I don't see a place for me to sit. I will have to join someone else. I look at the people gathered, hoping to find someone who will let me sit with them. I don't know or trust any of the gathered people very well; I have not seen most of them since I was a child. S has stayed in touch with more people from our home town than I have.

    After walking most of the way around the pool, I finally settle on DWG. The alternative is to draw attention to myself by acknowledging that there is no place for me to sit and causing a scene by making others move. Even though S is a very close friend and the meeting is important to her, I feel like I can't do this, so I take my chances that DWG will accept me. I haven't seen him since we were teenagers, but he's still looking hip and attractive. Most of the other men present have a frumpy middle-aged look about them. I dive into the pool, swim over to DWG and slide up to rest in his lap. I lean back so that my head is against his chest and my arms are draped across his legs. From the outside, I look casual and confident, as if DWG and I have an existing relationship. Internally I'm hoping he won't reject me. I'd be humiliated.

    He plays along. He accepts me as casually as I approach him. He puts his hand on my chin and turns my face up to kiss him. It's electrifying. I'm happy that we still have so much chemistry decades later. I know that the public display is inappropriate, but I'm also enjoying the attention. Of course the mature part of my personality knows that no one cares what we've been up to since high school and that making out in a meeting is annoying and selfish, but the sneering and self-absorbed side is satisfied to show off. We are beautiful. Our lives are interesting. High school was worse for us than the rest of them, but we've made it well into adulthood without their dullness. And now we're alive with sexual electricity.

    Everyone else disappears and the dream just becomes a typical sex dream except we're in the water so my body feels light in his lap. I'm facing him now and his hands are on my hips. But when I look down at his penis, I see that there are feathers sticking up, like a comb, on the head. He notices that I'm surprised. He says, "that's why it's called a cock".

    Now we are on a school bus. We are younger. DWG pulls up his pants and I sit next to him on a bus seat. I look out the window at a cow pasture and see a bull mount a heifer. I look back at DWG, but now he is JAB. This makes sense because we are children. I look down at my shoes with delight- they dangle above the bus floor. JAB tells me that I've missed my stop.

    I grab my backpack and walk towards the front of the bus. The driver is Ms. L, as obese and brash as ever. She's smoking a cigarette and thumping her hands on the steering wheel to Don't Mess With My TuTu, blaring with static from the portable radio sitting on the dash. I tell her that she's passed my house without letting me out. She responds that it's my own fault. If I hadn't been sucking on a boy's face, I would've noticed.

    She stops the bus right there in the cow pasture and tells me to get out. It's only a mile or so home, and I know the way. I climb over the barbed wire, but my skirt gets hung and tears. I slosh through the muddy field with a torn skirt, kicking the crawdaddy mounds along the way.
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    One Hundred Seventeen

    by lucyoncolorado on 11-11-2017 at 07:26 AM
    In which I help a dead girl find her remains and lead two living girls to a seance...

    We're in the main hallway of my childhood home. A young girl is with me. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail and held with a scrunchy. She's leading me around the corner from the foyer and into the carpeted hall to the bathroom where she will show me where her remains are hidden. She can't touch anything herself since she's dead already. I open the bathroom door as she directs, and she points at the base of the tub which is made up of two porcelain squares, caulked together. I've never noticed that they are walls to hollow compartments. The girl insists that I push on the square to the right, and the compartment opens, revealing a baking tray with rectangular pieces of pizza. I look more closely and see that these pieces of pizza are her bones.

    I walk into my parents' room where there are two other girls, but these are alive. The dead girl insists that these two living girls are key witnesses to her murder. We must only convince them to walk down the main hall and into the dark living where a medium is holding a conference of ghosts where they must testify. The girls are reluctant to trust me, and they are terrified of the dead girl. As I'm trying to persuade them, Buster runs into the room with the pizza-bones in his mouth. I wrestle the remains from him, but they are already destroyed. The dead girl and I rush to the bathroom to see if there are any remains to salvage. Most of the evidence is destroyed. The dead girl starts to cry, and I feel guilty and foolish for leaving the door open. Since the dead girl is a ghost with no material substance, I can't comfort her. I just watch her cry. I'm useless.

    Then the two living girls peer around the corner into the bathroom. Seeing the dead girl cry, they feel less scared. She is their age, and they are compassionate. The bolder of the two enters the bathroom, and I explain the situation. She gets down on her hands and knees and looks into the empty tub compartment. She reaches her hand deep inside and pulls out a small human jaw bone, intact with a complete set of teeth. It's more than enough remains to both identify the dead girl and to use as evidence at the ghost conference. Now I've only got to convince the girls to follow us into the living room.

    The thrill of the mystery motivates them now, but they are still afraid of what awaits us in the living room. It's dark, so all we can see are the candles and swaying figures. We can't tell who is living or dead. I assure the girls that it doesn't matter which are the ghosts and which are the living as they are all harmless people who only wish to work for justice. But as I'm saying it, I realize that I have no idea if this is true or not. I could be leading these two girls into danger. I'm surprised at myself for being so reckless with young children. It doesn't seem right, and I pause at the front door of the main hall. I realize that the responsible adult thing to do would be to grab the hands of the two living girls, throw open the front door, and run- leaving the poor dead girl to the ghosts where she belongs now. But the two girls now are excited by the thrill. Rather than being terrified, they are now tantalized. They've fallen into a pattern in which the bolder girl claims that she is not afraid and will go ahead. The more timid girl urges her on but stays behind herself. The bolder girl, though she's just as scared, refuses to lose face and so steps forward. The more timid girl follows, holding her hand. And like this, the two girls step into the dark living room. I should have taken control of the situation like a grownup but instead I stand with the dead girl and just watch them.

    A medium is holding a seance. The room is full of ghosts. It's cold and dark. The two girls start to tell their story. Immediately, the house starts to shake. I hear a bell ringing and my heart jumps.

    I get out of bed and walk into the dining room. The bell rings again. I pause in front of the table and look around. I'm disoriented. I try to assess where I am and what is ringing. I think to myself, I'm alone. I don't know anything else. I don't know where I am.

    Suddenly, my mother-in-law steps past me. I recognize her, but I'm still disoriented. She tells me that she'll get the door. I still stand there, disoriented. I understand the words. I realize that the ringing is the door bell. But I don't really understand what is going on. My husband walks in. I realize I look foolish. I try to explain that I'm so sleepy that I was confused about the sound. The words feel heavy in my mouth. I can tell by the looks on their faces that I'm not making sense. I decide to shut up before I talk in my sleep. I turn around and walk back to the bedroom.

    Updated 11-11-2017 at 07:49 AM by lucyoncolorado

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