Super hyper
Feb. 27th, 2003 09:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quislibetThe writers' group went super-long last night, or rather: hyper-long. For indeed, "super" (from Latin) and "hyper" (from Greek) both mean "over, above" and are Indo-European cousins (cf. Germ. "über") and yet the former has come to mean, in general, "superior" (if I may use a cognate to define it) while the other connotes "excessive." There are exceptions, of course: no one would want to be considered "superannuated" or "supernumerary," for instance, but who doesn't think "hyperspace" is cool?
Anyway, I'm glad I ate dinner first.
But really I logged in to tell you about
the dreams.
(I only did the lj-cut thing because I felt "the dreams" required, by a certain blog convention, a link, and yet there was nothing to link to, as I hadn't written it yet. And now, having written it, it's awfully long.)
Hello, I'm![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quislibet; you may remember me from such dreams as that that punk show in the sea one or, more recently -- for whom will I allow to forget it? -- the one about the Allston-Brighton Fighting Uruk-Hai. Well, I'm here to tell you about a couple of others.
In the wee hours of this morning I dreamed that Tia and others, as a sort of advertising thing for either a new hair salon or perhaps some sort of high fashion, were employed to have their hair chopped off inelegantly (so perhaps it wasn't for a hair salon after all) out in the street in view of passing cars or, at any rate, in view of the occupants of passing cars. Short of cash, I suppose, I ended up joining their number, knowing that of course one had to allow time between gigs for hair to regenerate.
After my hair was thus maltreated -- a mere blip in the dream, a catalyst insignificant for itself -- I tried to even it out with my desk scissors (the blue ones). It only got worse, so I went to some sort of rebel barber -- Henry Rollins might play such a one in a movie about a dystopian future where hair styling was outlawed, although I could also imagine it suitable for Tom Waits or even Walken -- who said it'd have to be shaved off entirely, 'cause see, already the color was leeching out and I was turning into a platinum blond.
Reluctantly, I agreed, but then he double-crossed me, shaving only part of it and then, cackling maniacally, vanishing into some sort of tunnel where I couldn't follow.
To my surprise, the result made me look something like Hedwig Robinson. I couldn't say where the extra hair came from after three haircuts, and the makeup was inexplicable, but there it was. A friend who apparently had been along suggested I go see J. and show her, because it looked pretty good.
We began to walk to my parents' house, where J. was. To my annoyance a car kept pace with us; an obnoxious young man with a bullhorn was leaning out the window and shouting, "Puta! Puta!" I tried to ignore him.
(We also passed a large pile of gravel dotted with orange traffic pylons; several construction workers stood around it, digging in a desultory sort of way. One shovel seemed to be coming from beneath the gravel; my friend and I agreed we wouldn't want to have his job.)
As we arrived at my parents' house, I knew that once my parents (in the dream an older, more high-strung couple) saw me with the platinum blond tresses all of the old arguments (?) would start up again. Which fears were unjustified, my parents preferring to avoid me entirely; my 'mom', who looked something like Mrs. Slocombe from "Are You Being Served?" (and thus really should hardly be upset at someone's hairstyle), opened the door from the bedroom when she heard my voice, and closed it immediately upon seeing my hair.
J., who had been wrapping birthday presents for me in the kitchen, saw me and said, "So what? You're wearing my wig again."
"It's not a wig," I said.
Rather an anticlimactic ending, perhaps, but that's how it was.
In the other dream, I was (somehow) starring in a "Rambo" sequel directed by Sarcy and Tang. We were rehearsing the scene where my character's best friend -- the young and idealistic son of a fictional Secretary of State -- got killed by the bad guys, whoever they were (like it matters). I got into an argument with the directors over the merits of the line, "Oh crap! He's dead."
----
1. "Rambo" and "Hedwig" -- competing models of the hypermasculine and the, well, not.
2. I could have put in hyperlinks to the IMDB entries for the above-mentioned movies, but that might have seemed affected and would have been, I think, at any rate superfluous.
Anyway, I'm glad I ate dinner first.
But really I logged in to tell you about
the dreams.
(I only did the lj-cut thing because I felt "the dreams" required, by a certain blog convention, a link, and yet there was nothing to link to, as I hadn't written it yet. And now, having written it, it's awfully long.)
Hello, I'm
quislibet; you may remember me from such dreams as that that punk show in the sea one or, more recently -- for whom will I allow to forget it? -- the one about the Allston-Brighton Fighting Uruk-Hai. Well, I'm here to tell you about a couple of others.In the wee hours of this morning I dreamed that Tia and others, as a sort of advertising thing for either a new hair salon or perhaps some sort of high fashion, were employed to have their hair chopped off inelegantly (so perhaps it wasn't for a hair salon after all) out in the street in view of passing cars or, at any rate, in view of the occupants of passing cars. Short of cash, I suppose, I ended up joining their number, knowing that of course one had to allow time between gigs for hair to regenerate.
After my hair was thus maltreated -- a mere blip in the dream, a catalyst insignificant for itself -- I tried to even it out with my desk scissors (the blue ones). It only got worse, so I went to some sort of rebel barber -- Henry Rollins might play such a one in a movie about a dystopian future where hair styling was outlawed, although I could also imagine it suitable for Tom Waits or even Walken -- who said it'd have to be shaved off entirely, 'cause see, already the color was leeching out and I was turning into a platinum blond.
Reluctantly, I agreed, but then he double-crossed me, shaving only part of it and then, cackling maniacally, vanishing into some sort of tunnel where I couldn't follow.
To my surprise, the result made me look something like Hedwig Robinson. I couldn't say where the extra hair came from after three haircuts, and the makeup was inexplicable, but there it was. A friend who apparently had been along suggested I go see J. and show her, because it looked pretty good.
We began to walk to my parents' house, where J. was. To my annoyance a car kept pace with us; an obnoxious young man with a bullhorn was leaning out the window and shouting, "Puta! Puta!" I tried to ignore him.
(We also passed a large pile of gravel dotted with orange traffic pylons; several construction workers stood around it, digging in a desultory sort of way. One shovel seemed to be coming from beneath the gravel; my friend and I agreed we wouldn't want to have his job.)
As we arrived at my parents' house, I knew that once my parents (in the dream an older, more high-strung couple) saw me with the platinum blond tresses all of the old arguments (?) would start up again. Which fears were unjustified, my parents preferring to avoid me entirely; my 'mom', who looked something like Mrs. Slocombe from "Are You Being Served?" (and thus really should hardly be upset at someone's hairstyle), opened the door from the bedroom when she heard my voice, and closed it immediately upon seeing my hair.
J., who had been wrapping birthday presents for me in the kitchen, saw me and said, "So what? You're wearing my wig again."
"It's not a wig," I said.
Rather an anticlimactic ending, perhaps, but that's how it was.
In the other dream, I was (somehow) starring in a "Rambo" sequel directed by Sarcy and Tang. We were rehearsing the scene where my character's best friend -- the young and idealistic son of a fictional Secretary of State -- got killed by the bad guys, whoever they were (like it matters). I got into an argument with the directors over the merits of the line, "Oh crap! He's dead."
----
1. "Rambo" and "Hedwig" -- competing models of the hypermasculine and the, well, not.
2. I could have put in hyperlinks to the IMDB entries for the above-mentioned movies, but that might have seemed affected and would have been, I think, at any rate superfluous.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
*gasp*
Date: 2003-02-27 07:33 am (UTC)Do you know how long it took me to get my hair CUT? I'd never let anyone just chop at it!
*shudder*
You're very scary, my man. *grins*
And is that woman from AYBS appeared in my dream I'd wake up screaming *grins*
Re: *gasp*
Date: 2003-02-27 07:47 am (UTC)I guess it paid well.
Re: *gasp*
Date: 2003-02-27 08:06 am (UTC)I always get all schmoopy when someone has me in their dreams, it's a compliment.
Even if I'm herding goats with a flaming whip, wearing tap pants (don't laugh, it happened.)
Re: *gasp*
Date: 2003-02-27 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 07:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 07:45 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2003-02-27 12:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 08:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 09:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 09:11 am (UTC)You know, I've always been mystified by the way h's in Greek turn into s's in Latin. I mean, hex -> sex? Hexagram, but sextet? What's up with that?
As for dreams, I believe that you are outcooling me yet again. My most recent dream, for what it's worth, involved a guy in a giraffe suit who was wandering around at the afterparty for a play that my friend
no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 09:25 am (UTC)I suppose that to go from H to S, all you need to do is close your mouth more. Well, and bring the tongue up.
But I'm not here to tell people what to do with their mouths and tongues, really.
My s.o. is jealous of my dreams; hers are almost always about getting stuck in traffic or having an argument with her advisor or things of that ilk.
Giraffe suits are cool. But not in a sexual way or anything.
no subject
Date: 2003-02-27 03:31 pm (UTC)It is a new A. Now that I have a l337 paid account, I can collect even more of em. Let me know if you come across any cool ones.
I think I'm going to start using words like "hyperfluous", "superlink", and... mmmm, maybe not "supermasculine".
My SO once had a dream so boring that I probably shouldn't tell it to you because it sort of embarrasses him sometimes.
no subject
Date: 2003-02-28 10:11 am (UTC)Here are a few festive 'A's:
http://www.bodley.ox.ac.uk/dept/scwmss/wmss/medieval/jpegs/don/a/011/500/01100324.jpg
http://www.bodley.ox.ac.uk/dept/scwmss/wmss/medieval/jpegs/don/a/011/500/01100333.jpg
http://www.bodley.ox.ac.uk/dept/scwmss/wmss/medieval/jpegs/don/a/011/500/01100345.jpg
... and many more hours could be spent starting by searching google for
site:www.bodley.ox.ac.uk "initial 'a'"
... which is how I found those three.
Re: What's so wrong with "Oh Crap! He's Dead." ???!
Date: 2003-02-27 09:30 am (UTC)(Note the action-hero user pic.)