I was on the phone in my office, advising a student. He lived far away, and he was sullen and uncommunicative. I accidentally hung up on him twice. I asked him what ideas he was interested in. He mumbled that he enjoyed deconstructing religion and applying that to politics and print media. I said, "Religion and Politics? You can major in those things here," but he cut me off and said that I shouldn't stereotype Christians. His mom started screaming at him, and I listened. I could see him standing in the doorway to his house. He wore a brown coat.

He came out to visit, and I took him to the grocery store. We bought a large bag of dogfood for his dog and some steaks. I paid at the register and asked him please to load the cart. We pushed it outside and sat down on the curb. I held a baby, who was his little sister. She wanted to eat the dogfood. She crawled off my lap and laid on her belly next to the dog. She snuggled up to next to the dog's leg and ate the dogfood off the ground without using her hands. I picked her up and held her in my arms so that she was looking up at me. I tried to feed her dogfood by hand, but she growled at me. Her eyes were glazed over; she was an intent little animal. I marveled at how well she would probably do for herself in the wilderness.

BBC Man

A news reporter who looked like Tom Brokaw stood on his front porch in England. He was about to go inside, but he hesitated, running his hand over his forehead. He looked tired.

He went inside and stopped in the foyer. His wife was standing with her back to him, cutting up paper. He told her that he had just been diagnosed with diabetes. Not turning around, she said, "how embarrassing," and continued to cut up paper. He agreed with her and reached for the back of her sweater. "You have paper stuck back here," he told her. "That one," she said, "is Plessy v. Ferguson."

I had two dreams at the same time last night. They were in little boxes, side-by-side. In the left box, I had a friend. He was tall and chubby with shaggy, brown hair and glasses. We went on walks together around the edge of a ruined castle. In the right box, there was a tall, thin, dark-haired man. I didn't trust him. He asked me for my I.P. address. I thought that this was too personal, and I didn't want to share it with him. I was annoyed with him for even asking.

Two rooms

I was in the bedroom of one of my advisees. The covers were rumpled, and there were barretts scattered on the sheets. My advisee was waiting for me in the hallway; we were going to his mother's house. I straightened the covers and picked up the barretts. He looked into the bedroom and rolled his eyes at me. We were in a hurry.

I was in Ortho's bedroom, but he was not there. The room was neat and tidy. Everything was dark brown. The bedspread was smooth and thin. There were two or three narrow strips of light running up and down the walls.

I went to a doctor because I every time I lay on my right side, I felt pain deep inside. I thought it might be gas. The doctor told me that my intestines had come loose from their stitching, and that laying on my right side made them slide around and twist together.

I was in a restaurant, leaning on a counter in front of a dirty, plate-glass window. I watched the street. A marching band was gearing up down the way. They were all Native Americans, and they all played saxophones. They had white uniforms. As they paraded toward me, I saw my saxophone on the counter in front of me. I moved it to the side so that it wouldn't get bumped when the band went by.

I moved to the bar and sat talking with a young man in a green shirt. A beautiful, dark-skinned woman sat across from us, to the side, on top of a heavy piece of dark brown, wooden furniture. She was watching me. I sipped my beer and said to the young man, "So, the oil deposits around here. Those are all owned by the Utes? No, wait...the Southern Utes?" He replied, "No, they're owned by the Greeks. I know this because I am a business major." I asked him to please get my wig, and he wandered off. I stood up, but I felt dizzy and exhausted. I told the woman that I would have to go. She said I shouldn't leave, and took off her coat, revealing a beautiful swim suit. It was a diamond pattern with bright colors. She looked like a butterfly.

Tagged

I have been tagged by Ortho at Baudrillard's Bastard.

The Rules:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Fact 1: I eat salad every day for lunch.
Fact 2: I have never been to Mexico.
3: I have wide forefeet.
4: I hate my apartment.
5: I'm learning about how feminist deconstruction applies to Library of Congress Subject Headings.
6: I eat my salad at my desk in my office at work.
7: I am worried about things.

Not knowing 7 bloggers, I will tag one: Claire Droney

Michael called me. He had been cleaning out his house, and he found a magazine. The magazine was one that he had given me, but I had given it back to him with his other things when I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. He was very angry and demanding on the phone, and I was concerned, and curious, so I went to his house. When I got there, he showed the magazine to me, shaking it in my face. His eyes flashed, and his mouth was drawn into a straight, narrow line. I listened to what he had to say, but he was being irrational, so I turned to leave. He followed me as I walked away down a dirt road. He yelled at me and shook the magazine in the air. Finally I got mad. I came to a chain link fence that I would have to climb in order to continue down the road. I didn't want Michael to try to grab me as I climbed up, so I turned to him, picked him up as high as I could, and threw him to the ground. The dust poofed into the air when he landed. He stood up, a little dazed, but smiling, and straightened his glasses. I started to climb the fence, but he leaped up to the top and made pretend grabs at my feet. I didn't want to try to hoist myself over the top while he was doing that because I was afraid he would catch on to me and pull me down. So I leaped back down to the ground. When he followed, I pushed him as hard as I could so that he stumbled backwards. Then I started climbing again. Once more he beat me to the top.

Guest Post 2

I had this great dream last night. I went to a big family reunion, with cousins I had never met before and one of them, of course, was really cute, and we were flirting and such and then made out in a big closet full of old wedding and prom dresses. He had this great grin right before he kissed me and I was grinning, too. We had to keep freezing and being quiet in the closet because various relatives kept coming in, and we didn't want to be caught. It was just a nice feeling, to like someone and be liked back, even if it was just a dream. Maybe that is why I read Joe's emails, so I can tell myself at least someone wants me. But he doesn't really want me, of course, he just has something to prove. I don't mean to sound all maudlin. I really don't mind being single, even prefer it, except every now and then when I have a great kissing-in-the-closet dream.

Guest Post

I was naked (so it seems...) and I was checking out my pubes. Now, you know how many people have some abnormally long hair on their arm or leg? I have an abnormally long pube: I'm completely serious. So, back in my dream, I'm stroking this long pube -- which in the dream is, like, two feet long -- and it turns out there's a couple of them. Then, it turns out to be one of those hair wrap things (like where they sort of braid a few strands of hair with some yarn or thread: some of them are kind of neat), except really long. Then, most of my pubes are really long hair wrap things and then I'm wearing some kind of skirt that's like all these long hair wrap things, and I'm admiring my new look, then I woke up.

I was in a beach house. I went into the bedroom and saw Michael there waiting for me. I still didn't want to have sex with him, but I lay on the bed anyway. He began to masturbate, and I saw that he was using both hands because he had two penises. I asked him about it, and he pulled down his pants to reveal a truly hideous mass of green, seaweed-like genatalia. There were four or five penises, roughly-textured flaps and mounds, and many long, waving tendrils. Michael grasped one of the tendrils and pulled it out to its full length, explaining that it had been a mole, but it grew. He was very calm and matter-of-fact about it all, so I tried to be kind. But I all could think was that I wanted this man as far away from me as possible.

Out on the beach, I met up with Patrick. He was going to show me that he had a job. We waded out into the murky ocean and onto a ship. He said he had recently sailed it through the polar regions for his new job as some kind of a salesman. His body was entirely coated in a light tan clay.

I went back to the beach, very confused. Two teenage girls in a black, convertible sports car were parked under the poles on which the beach house sat. They said they would rescue me. I was so relieved to get away. I got into the car with them, and we peeled out. A rogue wave crashed onto the beach and over-turned the car. We flew into the ocean.

My office was in a huge, old building in the woods. It was like a very old summer camp. Everything was made of wood, and there were high, peaked ceilings. Jennifer was back from maternity leave, and she was handing me papers at my desk. She made me nervous. My office was old and dusty with dirty, white curtains on the window. It was very dark, and getting darker. I looked out, and I saw that it was dark because the sky was filling with smoke. I saw deep red and purple flames through the tops of the tree branches.

I was supposed to be handling course add/drop forms, but I accidentally recycled them all. I dug through the recycle bin, looking for names I recognized.

In another room at the ofice/camp, I stood at a sink washing dishes. A line of four women stood at a ballet bar to my left practicing yoga. Jen from Corvallis was at the far end. She was looking very serious, but her eyes were crossed. She repeatedly pointed to the middle of her forehead. A Yogi walked up and stood quietly observing. He had flat, black hair that looked like a plastic helmet. He was wearing a white dhoti and shawl, but most of his skin was bare. An Indian man walked up to greet the Yogi. I thought that I should, too, but my hands were soapy. I didn't think it would be proper to say "namaste" with soapy hands, so I only smiled and hoped he understood.