Archive for Mum-Ra

I’m Dreaming of a Rather Disturbing Christmas

Posted in Holidays, Mental stuff, My So-Called Life, My Thoughts on X Thing with tags , , , , , , , on 27/12/2009 by phyrbyrd

Well, I should stop apologising for it being a while, since I only post when I feel I have something to say and I haven’t had anything particularly pertinent to say for the past month – I’ve just been busy. Even clam-examiners will know why – it is the season to be… well, at least not publicly miserable, anyway.

I am spending the holidays with three different sets of family this year, and so my present list has been quite large. I am currently writing this on Boxing Day evening from an air bed in the house of one of Mum-Ra’s twin sisters (1). I have had a good Christmas – there are family circumstances that put a darkener on the whole thing, but on the whole it’s been pretty good. Dark Twin has two daughters, and I don’t often see my cousins – we live at opposite ends of the country so it’s good to catch up. Tomorrow the Boil and I are going to visit other relatives, and Mum-Ra will stay to help deal with the family circumstances for a few more days.

But I’m not posting about Christmas, particularly, although I hope yours went well. What I’m actually posting about is dreams. You see, last night, I had a really disturbing dream. Not a nightmare, in that I wasn’t actually scared by it. I seldom get nightmares anymore in that sense – I just don’t scare easily. I was, however, very rattled when I woke, because although I’m told that nobody knows where dreams come from (2) I tend to believe that they’re composed entirely of the dreamer’s experience – that is, you can’t dream what you’ve never seen or at least heard of. This dream, therefore, was one which I was shocked to find in my own head.

I’m not going to tell you exactly what I dreamed. I’ll tell you the one before it – I was sitting in a bar drinking orange juice which was paid for by the man beside me who was drawing banknotes, and these notes were accepted as totally legal tender by the barman. After I’d drunk a massive amount of juice, the skin started to peel away from my hands, leaving bloody gashes in which the blood clotted up and hung in lumps. This dream was by far the less disturbing of the two – the later dream was perverse, illegal and not politically correct on many levels. There is nobody I could describe it to for fear that they, too, would be shocked at me for dreaming it and for the emotions that I felt while I was dreaming it – because, of course, the feelings were part of the dream, and it didn’t occur to me to be nauseated until after I woke up.

And yet. Why be horrified at Hypothetical Woman because she dreamed a dream? It’s not her fault. It isn’t her fault that her dream-self felt nothing but childlike wonder as she watched what would normally be illegal in several countries. She isn’t a lucid dreamer. She just dreams the dream, and then she wakes up and wishes she could scrub out the inside of her head.

I have encountered this misaimed prudery before, too – once I was in my art class and someone mentioned that they’d heard that ‘frottage’ was some kind of sexual act (3), so I explained it and everyone was mildly shocked – so was I, but mostly at the thought that they’d thought I was a nice girl. This was the same class that had seen me present this as an exhibition piece the year before. But really, why be shocked? I’d heard about it. It didn’t mean I was into it and even if I was, what business was it of theirs?

The original aim of this post is beginning to escape me – I believe it was something along the lines of, I’ve had some quite disturbing dreams, and people should be more open-minded. Happy New Year.

  1. Henceforth known as Light Twin and Dark Twin, since they are non-identical twins and one is darker than the other. Both married officers in the british navy, but since I’ve only met Light Twin’s husband once, I’m going to call Dark Twin’s husband Navy Guy.
  2. I would give a reference for this comment but it’s late and all I can find online at the moment is a load of guff about dream meanings and spirituality. I’ll fix this later if anyone gives a damn.
  3. ‘Frottage’ means ‘rubbing’ in French – in a sexual sense it can mean anything from masturbation to rubbing one’s genitals together. I, personally, think she already knew, but I picked it up from Y!Gallery.
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Why I Hate Public Transport

Posted in My So-Called Life with tags , , , on 21/09/2009 by phyrbyrd

Not a Hypothetical Woman post for this one, or a particularly political one – this one is personal.

See, this weekend I went from The Grim North to the Capital to the wedding of an old and dear friend, one who I’ve known since I was about eleven years old, when she was in college and crashing on our sofa for a while*. She’s come a long way since then – she’s a high-flying corporate lawyer (still very nice, though) and married another very nice corporate lawyer from Munich on Saturday.

Mum-Ra and I got up at half past six in the morning, drove to Big Northern City #1 and caught the train all the way down to London.** That went alright, despite the fact that we’d got on the wrong train – an hour earlier than we’d meant to, and the conductor said he would allow our tickets ‘this once’.*** But we got there alright, after much running around the London underground, and the wedding was lovely. Beautiful church, the Bride looked gorgeous, like a porcelain Royal Worcester cake topper.

The reception was amazing too – I made friends with many of the Groom’s family who all seemed disproportionately impressed when I tried out my terrible high-school German on them, and the only real low point was the speech made by the Bride’s Father, who seemed to think it was appropriate to make jokes about taking people out and shooting them in a room full of Germans.

Anyway, Mum-Ra and I had to leave early, as in before dessert, so as to catch our train home. We sat in a traffic jam in a taxi for twnty minutes, hared through the underground, and missed our train by about four minutes. After some standing around and asking what we were going to do, we eventually stayed the night with one of the bridesmaids and got lifts home, seperately, with other guests.

But I hate public transport. It costs too much and you are at the mercy of the system. You can’t relax and you must always watch the clock, in case you miss your bus, train or tram. You can’t leave your stuff in the car – Mum-Ra and I were lugging an unelegant two bags each around all day – and you can’t leave the party when you want. You have to share your space with drunk people, double-wide strollers, mocking teenagers and people like I was on Saturday, who have been running around for hours and haven’t had a chance to have a wash. Sometimes you don’t get to sit down, sometimes you don’t even get to hold on to anything, sometimes people are crushed tight against you.

I have epilepsy and they don’t let me drive so I don’t know what I’d do without public transport but that doesn’t mean I’ve got to like it. And I hate it when people say, ‘Oh, you can go to the Random Event, there’s a bus that goes there!’ First, I’ve never been on that bus route and I don’t know when to get off, second, I don’t want to stand around waiting for a bus for ages, third, whether or not I want to get on the damn bus is not anyone else’s business. Some people seem to get insulted by my reluctance to go everywhere by bus. Reverend Dad, for instance, doesn’t understand that the bus journey to come see him is two seperate busses, with a change in the most obnoxious town you’ve ever seen,**** and always fills up with soccer fans and idiot kids.

I hate public transport, and I can’t get away from it. Are we clear on this?

* – Her sister and a number of her friends did the same thing – we had a very comfortable sofa, almost constantly occupied by people we came to call, as a group, the Sofa-Dwellers.

** – As you can see, I’m trying not to explicitly name people or places connected to me – there’s two Big Northern Cities but we only have one capital.

*** – The snack shop attendant announced that, ‘There is a snack shop halfway down carriage C and there will be a first class service served in… first class. The snack shop will open shortly and hot and cold drinks and snacks will be available if you… pay.’ Clearly not a morning person.

**** – Also known as my birthplace, but we’ll call it Scumtown.