Jan. 17th, 2010

unmoored

Jan. 17th, 2010 05:27 am
egypturnash: (atropos)
Well. That was discommoding.

I woke up all alone in bed, and for a few minutes I wasn't sure if the past six years or so weren't a dream. If I wasn't asleep in my bed in an apartment in Glendale, with Ashy in the other bedroom, my finances sinking slowly into ruin, and me all alone.

I wasn't, of course; Rik was asleep in the other room after curling up to watch a movie with Nick, who was up late mucking.

I wonder if this feeling was partially inspired by having just read the first half of Eoin Colfer's posthumous collaboration with Douglas Adams, And Another Thing...*, which opens with Arthur, Ford, Trillian, and Arthur and Trillian's daughter all having been trapped in a hundred or so subjective years of VR. This was no doubt exacerbated by a dream that, near its end, had an external view of me, male, and shaven-headed.

But here I am in Boston, with two boyfriends in the next room, red hair, and a nice pair of tits.

(Other things in the dream involved being on a massive floating port that was moved through waterways into an even huger city - some sort of big arcology built with aging 1910 technology - and installed in a vast subway exchange cavern. Citizenship papers were offered but the crusty gunslinger I was at that point in the dream, and his old friend who was now in the shape of a bird, just slunk off into the city instead.)

Waking up and not knowing where you are or quite who you are. I've heard of that happening but never thought it was real. I can't say it was a pleasant experience, if only because I remembered a different point in my life at first, where I was much less happy.

* whose cover, I now note, spells out the title on a partially-burnt-out neon sign; the only lit letters spell out NOTHING - a nihilistic title, and one that will quite possibly be appropriate to the general emotional arc of the Hitchhiker's books!

"stuff"

Jan. 17th, 2010 07:51 am
egypturnash: (ten bees)
Huh, there's an attitude flip I wasn't expecting. I just sent a polite query to a musical act (Alias:Orion, sci-fi rock that Dr. Pinkerton just pointed to) asking if I could send them money for a handful of mp3s/oggs/flacs/whatever instead of sending them money for a physical CD.

I used to be proud of the physical evidence of my collection, before Katrina took it, but a few years of consuming music by downloading discographies off of the Pirate Bay and dropping ten bucks here and there on downloaded albums has made me reluctant to accumulate more physical objects. Yeah, I miss out on the pretty packaging, but what really matters is the music. Give me digital files you encoded to standards that make your demanding ears happy, that have all the tags set up right with a cover-art image and the lyrics already in there. The CD is just a means of delivering the bits.

I just have too much stuff and want to try and minimize the amount of new objects I have to deal with. I already have more than enough junk to cull before we move.

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