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    12-28-2019 06:37 AM
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    Recent Entries

    One Hundred Twenty Four

    by lucyoncolorado on 10-04-2019 at 08:20 PM
    In which Pete Buttigieg is a dwarf...

    I'm sleeping downstairs in the magic room. Slow jazz wakes me. I look towards the cracked open door, and light streams in. A small hand pushes it open

    Dwarf Pete Boot Edge Edge steps in, slowly dancing, turning, spinning, snapping his fingers, stepping in time, bouncing his knees, twirling across my room, passing my bed. I sit up and stare at him. He's maybe three feet tall and wearing nothing but a diaper.

    After several minutes, he dances his way to my window then climbs up my curtains like a koala up a tree. He jumps out the window and runs off into the moonlight.

    In which I keep throwing up small metal balls...

    I'm at an airport, coughing. There are small metal balls stuck in my throat, coming up from my stomach. I keep throwing them up. I collect them in my hands, so many I can't hold them all. I look for a bathroom. So many are spewing out now that I'm trailing them behind me. They come up with foam and bile. My hands and chin is dripping. People stare at me, and I vomit more balls.

    I follow a sign that points RESTROOM. I push open swinging doors and I'm in a public pool. I must cross a dividing rope in the pool to get to the other side. I rinse my foamy hands in the pool water, spilling the balls. They float. People are disgusted. I take off my shoes and start to swim, but I vomit in the water, more bile, more balls, floating around, bubbly.

    I make it to the other side and enter the door marked RESTROOM. There are women working out on weight machines. There is one toilet in the middle of the room, no sink. People line up to use the toilet. A woman sits on it, shitting in front of everyone.

    Updated 10-04-2019 at 08:22 PM by lucyoncolorado


    One Hundred Twenty Three

    by lucyoncolorado on 05-15-2019 at 06:56 AM
    In which I am married to Micheal Corleone...

    I'm married to Micheal Corleone. He's young, but he does not look like young Al Pacino. I tell him so. He tells me that he's aged poorly. I agree, but I say this does not explain the discrepancy. Then I tell him I know he's been having an affair. I tell him I found out because Sonny, also, is sleeping with the same woman. Sonny is also aging poorly. This is odd, I think, since I thought he should not age at all.

    I discover the identity of the woman having an affair with both my husband and his brother. I invite her to my house for a drink. When she arrives, I'm amused to see that it's Elizabeth Warren. I laugh and offer her a drink.

    How does she have the time to carry off an affair with two men and run for president? She's nonchalant about it. She says one must learn to multitask if one wishes to get anything done.

    One Hundred Twenty-Two

    by lucyoncolorado on 12-13-2018 at 07:42 PM
    In which Kanye and I are Christmas giants in the Tiny World...

    I was a worker at the South Pole where we prepare Christmas for Tiny People who live among us in Tiny World. To them, we are giants.

    I had the magic to remove the front face of the Tiny People's tiny houses so I could reach inside and change the decor just like you might do with a dollhouse. My job was to hang tiny wreathes and stockings on tiny doors and mantels.

    After some time, my manager told me I had a new assistant. I turned around to find Kanye, reporting to work. He told me he needed to make a little extra money for the holidays, and anyway he thought he should learn a backup trade just in case. All was well at first, but then he insisted that we also change the Tiny People's wallpaper. "You're not thinking big enough," he told me. "We aren't going to stop with wreathes. We are going to redecorate the entire Tiny World!"

    We started on the first tiny house. We pasted a Victorian floral print on the walls, put a complete body of armor beside the front door, ripped out the kitchen and replaced it with a brick fire place, and filled a cabinet with tiny ceramic dishes- so small they kept sticking to my fingertips. Then Kanye said, "What we need now is a street urchin." And he ran away to find one.

    By then, Christmas was almost over and I had not delivered any of my wreathes and stockings. For the rest of the dream, I ran about the Tiny World frantically trying to hang all the wreathes without knocking things over, but my arms and legs wouldn't move properly. I fell on tiny houses, crushed tiny trees, ruined tiny Christmas. "Damn you, Kanye!" I shouted, shaking my fist at the sky.

    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.

    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.