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[personal profile] sinnie
I was really tired last night bodywise, but brainwise, I had no chance. What kept me awake? You name it, I probably thought about it.

There were four things in particular that kept me up.

1. The naming of the main character in my haunting WoLF. She started out as V (long story, short: Pynchon) until her real name came to me and, by damned shit, it's never arrived. Many hours were spent last night (or at least what felt like many hours) going through a mental baby-name-book list of names. WITH NO RESULTS.

2. The overall plot of the haunting WoLF. I'll admit I like what's happening in the Big Picture way, but the truth is, I was driving the bus when SHE needed to drive the bus. The good news is that SHE OF NO NAME made her wishes known. So, she's killing her father and going on an Algonquin adventure. Will she get there? Will the guilt drive her mad? Will moral ambiguity rule the day? *throws hands up in the air* Don't ask me, I don't even know her name.

3. A PLAN that is still awesome even though I'm drinking coffee and sitting up. I bought two Moleskin journals and I'm going to take one, write a journal entry/letter thing and send it to my friend M with only the first rule recorded: send it back with a responding journal entry/letter thing within two weeks or send it back and say I'm not doing this. Seriously, this will be the stuff of literary legends at some point in time.

4. My stupid ignorant Trump supporting shoulder. It was so hard getting comfortable and when I finally dozed off, I guess my arm was in the way wrong space. At 4 a.m. I woke right the fuck up in WTF OUCH. That said, waking right the fuck up let me hold on to what I was dreaming at that exact moment and I thought to myself that my dreams were a confetti of images swirling around in a cosmic snow globe. One thing that stands out is an image of a Breyer "project" horse from the 2016 Pony Club. It comes to you a chalky white color and you go in and paint it. The chalky white version is what was in my dream.

Which reminds me of a glittery fragment of a dream from at least a decade ago; it's stayed with me this long. First, some backstory: if you've ever read Gibson's _Neuromancer_, you may remember the talking head --

The Finn was a fence, a trafficker in stolen goods, primarily in software. In the course of his business, he sometimes came into contact with other fences, some of whom dealt in the more traditional articles of the trade. In precious metals, stamps, rare coins, gems, jewelry, furs, and paintings and other works of art. The story he told Case and Molly began with another man's story, a man he called Smith. Smith was also a fence, but in balmier seasons he surfaced as an art dealer. He was the first person the Finn had known who'd "gone silicon"--the phrase had an old-fashioned ring for Case--and the microsofts he purchased were art history programs and tables of gallery sales. With half a dozen chips in his new socket, Smith's knowledge of the art business was formidable, at least by the standards of his colleagues. But Smith had come to the Finn with a request for help, a fraternal request, one businessman to another. He wanted a go-to on the Tessier-Ashpool clan, he said, and it had to be executed in a way that would guarantee the impossibility of the subject ever tracing the inquiry to its source. It might be possible, the Finn had opined, but an explanation was definitely required. "It smelled," the Finn said to Case, "smelled of money. And Smith was being very careful. Almost too careful." Smith, it developed, had had a supplier known as Jimmy. Jimmy was a burglar and other things as well, and just back from a year in high orbit, having carried certain things back down the gravity well. The most unusual thing Jimmy had managed to score on his swing through the archipelago was a head, an intricately worked bust, cloisonne over platinum, studded with seedpearls and lapis. Smith, sighing, had put down his pocket microscope and advised Jimmy to melt the thing down. It was contemporary, not an antique, and had no value to the collector. Jimmy laughed. The thing was a computer terminal, he said. It could talk. And not in a synth-voice, but with a beautiful arrangement of gears and miniature organ pipes. It was a baroque thing for anyone to have constructed, a perverse thing, because synth-voice chips cost next to nothing. It was a curiosity. Smith jacked the head into his computer and listened as the melodious, inhuman voice piped the figures of last year's tax return. Smith' s clientele included a Tokyo billionaire whose passion for clockwork automata approached fetishism. Smith shrugged, showing Jimmy his upturned palms in a gesture old as pawn shops. He could try, he said, but he doubted he could get much for it.


My dreamfrag was of me going into a bank (one from when I was a child -- I can remember going in with my mother, looking at the vast vault doors, the smell of wood) and instead of going to a teller, I went up to a jeweled and glittering mechanical horse head. There's more I remember, but it's the image of that horse head, so together and apart with the _Neuromancer_ head, that has stayed unchanging and perfect all these years.

Anyway.

Good morning.
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