it's 7:54 pm, on January 27, 2002 - absolut madness.

~

Just to warn, the following probably highlights just how much it feels like my life has suddenly become an outtake from "Zardoz".

I find myself inexplicably addicted to this song that Mel and Rossi hooked me on. Damn you, Whitlams. Also, damn you funky little beat, damn you bitter sarcastic bright singing. Repeating the same pattern over and over and over again is a form of mind control. "you sound like louis burdett". Yes, only if Louis was a freaky person with a subconscious that needs therepy, but.

"most of my friends are very fruity indeed, such fun to have around -- Chris don't like madness, but madness likes him"

Last night the Subconscious Russian Issues reached a new level of weird. Woke up at four thirty in the morning or something, knowing that I needed new shoes. The SRI came from the fact that I was in Russia, rather than I was with a Russian. See, there was this race, and I was running it, and it kept raining no matter what. And I kept losing my shoes or something.

All I know is, when I woke up I was standing on a russian street corner and I didn't have any shoes any more. And I think my feet were wet. This was in no way impeded by the fact that (a) I hadn't taken them off and (b) I have no idea what a russian street corner would look like, should I ever find myself suddenly standing on one. No mind-- pushing on.

"played some poker, scratched my head -- look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?"

Is this a sign, possibly, that my subconscious wants to take a trip to Russia? Possibly. Also, there was a whole thing where I was running through the forest with a great multitude of other runners. Not in a scared, getting-away-from-something way. More like, hello, I am a track runner way. See me pace myself with a number on my back. See me slosh through puddles, getting my feet wet and losing my shoes, to win the race.

"I'm stoned in a book shop, sober in a night club, sex is everywhere but nowhere around me"

Sex, in fact, is not the issue.

So, then, after my not-winning-the-race because of missing shoes, I go back to sleep. Four thirty in the morning, I ask myself? Not getting up! Lay down. Close eyes. Sleep.

Find myself, again inexplicably, in a fancy health club. Wanting to use the rowing machines, but got lost, and couldn't find them again. I think I was wearing my green ski jacket. SRI are nowhere to be found. Footwear Problem, however, more than made up for it, for I had a pair of flippers on my feet. Presumably, one must guess, to use the rowing machine.

Somehow the health club became a grungy children's school, in the same building, and I walked around in my flippers and talked to the children. Don't think I told anyone that anyone had died, this time.

Wake up. Seven in the morning. Decide that the issues have been explored enough, for one night. Get up. HTML for the IBAs. Update website for many hours. Life continues without sign of anything even remotely Russian. Issues include Archivist Griping, Continual Restlessness, and thinking about Friends in the shower.

"and we roll on to my backshed"

Eventually, I'll be able to talk about my dreams in my own little form of shorthand. Subconscious Russian Issues. Footwear Problems. Pterodactyl Sexual Experiences. --did I mention that one? That was weird too. That went with the Sexual Grief Spiritual Experience. Only, there was a pterodactyl egg in the shower.

Have had an oddly productive day, and feeling a little resentful. Almost snapped at Dex in the channel-- wanted to yell, "Archivists do not appreciate single-spacing! Respect the HTML! It is not your bitch! buy pop-music!" Perhaps the problem stems from a lack of lambfic in my inbox. Must find someone to remedy this.

"all my friends are fuckups but they're fun to have around"

The night before last, I didn't fill in the details of the dream aside from the grief, did I. I don't remember it anymore, really, except the museum. Also had a Child As Frightened Witness issue crop up last night. Little children seem to provide (a) frightened witnesses or (b) background scenery in my subconscious. A little like an audience for a Marilyn Manson concert: watch in fascinated horror or yawn and have him ignore you.

"had a little bit to drink, there's a little thing I want at a do out East"

Am counting down the days until I go to Baltimore. Hoping that it will be a dance-a-riffic time. Needing a fake ID, however-- anyone who thinks they may look like me and is over 21 may apply. It would be very much appreciated.

If you, too, have SRI, however, we may have to have a conference. I think, perhaps, that I need to get away from the Russian influences. I'll find myself saying 'taplovana' at inappropriate times otherwise-- since it's practically the only russian word I know. Life will end up being like this:

"What are you doing later?"
"taplovana!"
"Want to go out?"
"nyet."
"Are you crazed and insane?"
"dosvidanya."
"...that's right. You are crazed and insane. What are you doing later?"
"taplovana."

It's all about the warm water, after all.

"your life's an open magazine, louis!"

The SRI are demanding some form of outlet, possibly in the form of explanation to subconscious's russian symbol. Am not looking forward to that: there is only so much freaky one can dump on someone else until it's just not a good sign. After all. Chris don't like madness, but madness sure likes him.

News of an emotional kind: Do not like waving arms and flailing hands like JC, while stumbling over the simplest words and sentence forms, like JC. Not appreciating my conscious's propensity to do JC impressions at just the right time for maximum idiot-behavior. Apparently both subconscioius and conscious are working in cohorts to make sure everyone I know thinks I'm a moron. Would go on strike, but having a hard time with contractual negotiations. So far, they hold all the cards.

Not quite hitting madness, but getting there quickly. I think it's all downhill from here.

Other news of an emotional kind: do not have any. Apparently, until subconscious and conscious have worked out a plan to completely ruin my credibility with anyone, emotions have been put on hold, delegated to the banner-waving and placard-carrying portion of the picket line. Later, perhaps, they will be allowed to shout amusing slogans while subconscious works to tie my thoughts in knots and generally prevent whole brain from functioning at all.

"Need to contemplate speaking now, brain, please."
"You... want.... shoes!"
"No, see, I have to have this conversation, where I can't talk jibberish and assume that people are reading my mind..."
"Meh! Gyehwah! You are feeling -- sneezy! No. You want. Juice. And shoes."
"But, c'mon. I, damn. Thoughts. Linear, line, thing. No shoes."
"Dopey. Doc. Snappy. All the dwarves!"
"Emotions. Stay out of this. This is between me and the higher brain functions-- somewhere, I know you're capable of producing rational thought. I know this because, well, calculus. You passed."
"Mango! Tonight, you shall dream about cabbages screaming in Russian, as you eat a boot and watch the animals on parade. Here are our demands..."

Cannot stop repeating "you sound like louis burdett!" Am fast approaching point where brain has wrested all control of fingers and tongue away from me; will begin to describe the pterodactyls. Am also fast approaching time where sleep? Good thing. Until subconscious starts in on me. It's like a tag-team of freaky weird, and I can't do anything about it.

Symbol of SRI just entered chat. Watch as consciousness makes fingers trip over each other and do the chat-equivilent of "meh! yah! you know--" Instead, am trying to force connection by shoving questions out. Surefire way to either get a lot of exponential -- that's the wrong word. Exposition. A lot of personal exposition, or a look that says, "Freaky!"

Even money either way, I figure. He has a poetry in words, normally, that'll mean that even if the answer is "freaky!" it'll at least be in interesting words.

Did I mention? Started talking to Ally again for the first time in years-- this gal that used to beta for me, and used to read reboot, and was really a good friend. Like sue-the-dream, Ally was one of those completely unconnected people.

"where will I go on holidays?"

This is probably the best line to leave on, since it means, I have an answer. Also, there is less madness attached to it than, madness loves him.

Madness loves Chris, he's talking bout the way things used to be. Strange that. That line fits with the rhythm of the song, though I don't think it is one. It probably should be.

~

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