the river's just a river

Expat kids tend to have an odd sense of geographical entitlement. Nony and I were discussing this the other day – how she complains about having never been to Berlin, like it's something she deserves. I feel the same about Prague and Paris and St. Petersburg (the list goes on). The TCK world is so shrunken that TCK expectations to visit certain countries are comparable to non-TCK expectations to visit bordering cities and states.

With this geographical entitlement comes a nonchalance towards general traveling. I'm housesitting for an American family for the upcoming week, and today the son showed me around the house as I asked questions about their trip.

"So where are you going?"

"Rome," he said flatly.

"Have you been before?"

"Nope."

"That's exciting."

"Yeah." We walk quietly for a few moments, and then he continues. "But I've heard that there's not much to do there. You know, besides seeing the sights."

"Oh." I tried to think of what a 12-year-old boy would want out of a city. A theme park?

"Like there aren't any amusement parks or anything." Bingo.

I suppose his apathetic attitude towards Rome could be attributed to a youthful apathy in the same way that museums are wasted on young children. Still, it's hard for me to imagine a non-expat kid being so blase about such a trip.

silently your senses abandon their defences

Smashing Story: Awkward – TV hostess on live TV announces the wrong Australia Top Model winner.


**

Silence. Solitude. Reflection. Time.

I've never really felt a need for time. In my current, vaguely employed state, this might not be surprising information. But you'd be surprised how much there is besides "employment" to fill my life – reading, writing, socialization, photography, cooking, music, etc. Actually, you probably wouldn't be surprised, because it seems to be pretty common to have a need to fill in possible blank spaces.

For me, high school was about joining a million clubs/groups/sports, thriving on the input, socialization, and knowledge from each. I'm not exaggerating – my life sounded like a somewhat desperate college entry essay – MUN, band, choir, softball, soccer, basketball, plays, talent shows, fashion shows, student council, piano, youth group band, yearbook, all accompanied by constant reading and an active social life.

People who stressed about time always puzzled me, and when someone said they couldn't go out because they didn't have time, I generally assumed they didn't want to – after all, there is always time for the things that are important to you; and there is always so much time.

I still think that people will always make time for things that are important to them. I just think that they should reflect more on their choices of "things of importance." (And when I say "people," I mean "me.") Perhaps time isn't as bountiful as it appeared to my 17-year-old self; not when using it properly.

**

In Lifegroup tonight, one of the girls spoke about how solitary reflection can be scary because there are certain things that you might not want to confront. We spoke of God's whispering voice and the importance of stillness.

These are jarring ideas, considering the mayhem of 2010 living; traffic, radios, television, kjhagjhfdkjfhgjskdhgklj.

**

Sometimes, when I'm walking alone, I look nervously over my shoulder and quicken my pace. I then look back again, and walk even faster. This makes me feel like I'm in a John Grisham novel, or Erin Brockovich. The girl with the pearl earring, maybe. (She and Erin Brockovich share a blurry space in my mind.)

It also appears to make the people behind me uncomfortable. Casualties happen.

so if you care to find me, look to the northern sky

timer camera photo


This week I:

- made sushi for the first time
- ate reindeer for the first time
- was visited by a high school friend I hadn't seen in five years
- was told by a policeman to calm down and get back into the car
- accidentally set off a silent alarm inside the metro station (looking for a bathroom light switch)
- experienced 50F (10C) weather for the first time in two years
- got to listen to my sister and Nony discuss whether I was scruffier in high school or now ("she used to stick her hair up in a knot every day and it was nasty"; "no – have you seen it now?" etc)
- saw a fully intact ship that sunk 20 minutes into its maiden voyage
- almost picnicked at a castle
- discovered the sauna in our building's basement


Exciting stuff. Got to reminisce with Scarlet and Nony over the silly things we were in high school. Realized that we still have a lot of the same conversation topics; ie. every two minutes is: "Okay, new plan. You two move to Ecuador with me..." or "How about this? Ash gets her teaching degree, and we all go to New Zealand"... until the inevitable "One of us marries rich and supports the others" idea is reached.

And of course, there were Nony's fun facts. "Fun fact: there is actually a treasure seeking career!" Well, that one is fun...most involved weird bits of information. Nony is my barmy geek friend who, while procrastinating writing her Master's thesis at her geek school, decided to memorize all the countries of the world. Most people procrastinate on Facebook.

Naturally, the week was also filled with "Have you heard of" countries. (Yes, I've heard of Djibouti. No, I haven't heard of Burkina Faso.) That's right, she sucked us into her web of knowledge.

don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk?

“I’m not much of a dancer, but I’ll walk you there,” my father says willingly. He has always been crazy about walking, and living in Stockholm has provided him ample opportunity to engage in his long strolls. He and my mother are the only ones without metro/bus passes, and they walk an hour or two every night.

Occasionally they come back from these walks with fantastic stories about places they found (an extensive animal cemetery, a labyrinth) or events they bumped into (free concerts, etc). Last Sunday’s walk ended at a musical/dancing extravaganza, which they had wandered into on one of the nearby islands. They came home and raved about the free dancing lessons and music, until my sisters and I decided that we would go the next week.

“It’s about a 20 minute walk.” According to father, everything in Sweden is approximately 20 minutes from our apartment. This includes Gamla Stan, Sergels Torg, and every church we’ve visited. In his brain, these walks might actually be 20 minutes – after all, time is a philosophically complex notion, and I accept the idea of its relativity.

But tonight I want something more concrete. “What’s that in human time?”

He smiles. “OK, maybe half an hour. It took us 27 minutes last week. I’ll time it again.”

**

We amble along the waterside, admiring the boats and considering how lovely it would be to own one.

“That could be the Stewart,” he says of a medium-sized yacht. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have it for a family business? I could be the skipper, you could do the bookings and stuff, and Hannah could dance.”

I agree, and we continue walking. The subject inevitably moves to a Stewart dude ranch – a dream that is usually shot down by the family. I assure him that I am game and am, in fact, very fond of horses…and dudes.

It’s around seven and twilight is settling in. I cannot help remembering the summer skies when we first arrived which stayed bright until late. Changes are coming.

**

My father drops me off, and I enter a large, quaint building, which is leaking music into the chilled evening air. The inside of the building feels small – there are many rooms, corridors, and people milling about, practicing instruments and chatting.

The folks inside the building are just that – folks. Literally. They are a range of ages, but mostly older; very relaxed, simply dressed, and completely different than the Swedes who have daily surrounded me in Stockholm. The idea hits: this is real Sweden. It dawns on me that I have based my judgment of Sweden on Stockholm: somewhat akin to judging the United States based on a month in New York City. Informative, but limited and inaccurate.

I enter a cozy, well-lit room toward the back. It is the beginner’s dance class, and there are about seven couples painstakingly attempting the waltz-like moves they have just learned. The instructor is a short, bald, thick-necked man in his early 70’s. He is singing and keeping time in Swedish.

My mother tries teach me what I’ve missed, and softly chants the instructor’s words in English, “Outer, outer, inner.” She is trying to do the man’s part, and it is confusing her. The other couples start twirling, and we join in, our feet are a jumbled mess.

I have always been cursed with a love for dancing combined with a complete lack of any natural or gained ability. I am the 12-year-old who never got used to her growth spurts, and my limbs flail like a baby bird. Everything is awkward; I am tense in the wrong places and loose where I should be controlled. My only consolation is the knowledge that I have never done this dance before, and my partner is my mother.

The instructor stops singing, and begins monologuing in Swedish. Everybody detaches from their partner and finds a new one. As I register this information, an elderly man approaches me, hand held out. He is taller than me, thin with softening features and gray hair.

His hand settles firmly on my ribcage, and we start to dance. I am fine until the twirling commences, and then my feet are stampeding on his. I look down, trying to see what is going wrong, but my attempts are futile.

He tries to help – “Put your right foot here…then…here…Talar du Svenska?” Do you speak any Swedish? He is desperate.

I shake my head with an apologetic smile. “Engelska.” I hope he doesn’t think I am terrible because he is bad at explaining. I am terrible because I was born this way.

The class ends, and we all file through a corridor where a violin lesson is taking place. Lively music follows us as Ammadeus gravitates toward tables covered with piles of homemade food. There are burgundy soups, fresh vegetables, soft spreads, and a variety of baked goods.

Another group of violinists is enthusiastically playing in the corner, and the tables are filled with a mishmash of casually dressed Swedes, eating and talking.

“I’m going to get some food, try to get a seat across from the spicy guy,” Ammadeus instructs me. She has been eyeballing a young man with dark sideburns and big, light eyes. There is no room at Spicy Guy’s table, and we make do with a table in an adjoining room.

**

I walk home with my mother and younger sisters, still feeling energized from the community. Ammadeus is also animated, and we start rapping Justin Timberlake and Eminem. We decide to try rapping Jason Mraz and Taylor Swift songs and are delighted with the effect.

“Lucky I’m in love with my best FRIEND!” our rap is angst ridden; we are expressing our anger, channeling Tupac, electrifying the streets of Sweden.

“We were BOTH young when I first saw YOU!” We are rap geniuses. Superstars. How have we not been discovered?

We are also clearly American, and I am glad the streets are empty – no need to be enforcing Loud American stereotypes. The air is chilly, we can see our breath, and we are walking briskly against the cold, passed on one side by the occasional bit of traffic and staggered buses. On our other side, fancy private yachts are darkly sitting on the water, just beyond the reach of the streetlights.

Our repertoire of original rap songs has run out, and our conversational audibility has mellowed into a tone more complementary with our surroundings. So this is Sweden.

look at the world and I notice it's turning

This guy is wonderful.




This morning I discussed adoption with my parents and ended up with a conversation that went something like this:

mumsie: "You should be glad I'm all for it. When I was thinking about it, my mom was completely against it."
me: "Really?"
mumsie: "Yeah. I mean that was after we already had six and were looking..."
me: "Ohh."
mumsie: "Anyways it wasn't my passion. It was something that I always thought would be a wonderful thing to do, but I wasn't committed enough."
me: "That makes sense."
mumsie:"And you know what tipped it over? When I realized we wouldn't all fit in the Suburban. We'd have to get some sort of commercial van or something."


So I missed out on another little sibling because we didn't want another car.

**

I want to design a website where you can put ingredients in and it outputs recipes.

i had a barbeque stain on my white t-shirt

iWood

Things I like:

This website. It has a list of 40 web designer's online portfolios. I love the amount of creativity that is possible on the internet – it's almost magical.

The iWood. Actually, I mostly like the photo and the concept – the descriptions are a bit snarky.

MIT's OpenCourseWare. You can literally take an MIT class for free; they've filmed lectures and uploaded tests and answers. (Well, it's more like an audit than a class because you don't get course credit.) I'm currently doing one of the classes and I've found it amusing and highly informative. Also, my brain has stopped atrophying.

**

Small Talk Question

Is it ever wrong to have a feeling? "Bad" feelings: anger, jealousy, lust, pride. Or what about "good" feelings at inappropriate times: happiness, sadness, excitement, etc.

Are we responsible for controlling our minds to the degree that we can actually prevent "wrong" feelings? Or are we only responsible for what we do with those feelings (ie. dwell on them, act on them). Are we simply supposed to acknowledge them (not as good or bad, just as existing), get to the heart of the issue, and then move on?

**

I think the scariest possibility of old age is not losing vision or hearing, but mental acuity. There have been times when I've felt like my mind had to work really hard to grasp something and I felt like my brain was dysfunctionally slogging through thick mud. (Being introduced to higher math/physics concepts. Reaching what appears to be a limit of certain philosophical concepts. Having a conversation in the early morning/while exhausted.)

The idea of my cognitive abilities slowing down to this rate for everyday ideas and activities is frightening. Maybe I'm not properly acknowledging resilience.

that wars would never start

Is it wrong to appeal to pathos for a good cause? Ie. publish pictures which tap an emotion in order to get someone to donate money to the poor. Sure, the numbers and facts about hunger, poverty, etc. can be factually explained and used to convince someone to give to others – but tapping into empathy seems to be a more effective method. Is it manipulation or communication?

**

I met a film major at Biola who was struck by the poverty he saw when visiting Africa on a church trip one summer. He decided to create a documentary to raise awareness of global poverty (while living on $1.25 a day), and he is planning to start a nonprofit enabling youth to combat poverty. Currently, he's trying to get funding for his project through a Pepsi contest.

I think it's a pretty cool project. It's easy to get overwhelmed with Social Justice causes, and it's easy to criticize something from the outside...

It's also easy to go to the Pepsi challenge website and vote for his project. Sure, Pepsi is using the giveaway for publicity. And this sort of setup allowing people to sit in their bedrooms and feel better about themselves through the click of a button. But hey – they should feel better about themselves – at least they're bothered enough to spend a couple minutes on it. Right?

going down the only road I've ever known

I grew up reading comic books. Specifically: Garfield, Calvin and Hobbes, Farside, Asterix and Obelisk, Tintin, Archie, Dilbert, For Better or For Worse, and Foxtrot. I read other comics in the newspaper and upon occasion, but I only read collections of the ones I just listed. I devoured them like novels, and rereading them always gives me a sense of nostalgia and heightened appreciation for the intelligence and talent behind each strip.

Naturally, as with most of my interests/entertainments, I decided to try the art out for myself. I read my favorite authors' descriptions of their work processes, was given a "How to become a cartoonist" book, and set to work developing characters. I ended up with a young girl and her obnoxious pet monkey who would mock/make terribly witty remarks towards anyone else entering the scene (think Lord Henry Wotton).

I'm not sure what makes animals in cartoons so appealing – perhaps because paper is an equalizing medium: they have an equal claim to reality as their 2D human counterparts. Vraisemblablement, there is something naturally humorous about animals; especially talking animals. Particularly cows. (Yes, I adore Larson beyond all reason.)

**

This is the part where I move away from the mike to breathe in.

At Lifegroup the other night, the topic of trust came up – trust in God, trust in others. Somebody tied trust into control, and I haven't been mentally able to break the two since. Trust requires relinquishing a certain amount of control; like the chair example – you don't trust it until you sit in it.

Even when trust is simply a matter of spending time with someone and believing that they will accept you and your intentions, it allows them to have a certain amount of control over your well being. Any relational investment does, just ask Simon and Garfunkel:

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
Well, I've heard the word before.
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

**

Sometimes when I'm walking, hiking, or riding the bus, I turn on the LOTR soundtrack and pretend I'm on an enthralling quest. I highly recommend it.

**

Every day I have the joy of hanging out with and walking Adam, a 6 month old Havanese Shih tzu.

When I first met Adam, he made a mad cap dash towards my crotch, wondering if I was a suitable love interest. He then flung his body in the air, aiming for my face, but contenting himself on chewing my hands. I'm glad that humans have developed a system of social norms to prevent this sort of behavior.

Adam is young, eager, and rather a ditz. He has the energy of a youthful John Travolta, and the attention span of Ellen Degeneres. When I throw a stick for him he runs frenetically at it with what appears to be a single minded fixation until he overshoots the target and runs onwards until called back or utterly confused.

Occasionally he doesn't run past the stick. Instead, he simply gets distracted before reaching it. Causes of distraction include other sticks, leaves, bits of dirt.

At only 6 months, he has only recently learned the art of lifting his leg and marking his territory. He is extremely excited about this discovery and literally marks objects every seven feet. At the beginning of our walks, that is – about halfway through he runs out of ammo and lifts his leg as more of a symbol of power than an actual deposit. (Once in a while he manages a few drips at the end.)

you could jumble them together, the conflict still remains

pi back art



My little sister Ammadeus is the mathematically inclined one in our family. I decided it would be a good idea to write part of pi on her back and take photos. I think it would be really cool to cover an entire body in pi (like across the face and wrapping around the torso, etc), but that will probably have to wait until winter when we will be forced to rely on indoor activities.




She is also the artistic (painting, sketching, etc) one in our family. An artist who is talented at math seems like it should be the most obvious thing in the world: after all math and art are so entwined. Still, it makes sense that some people naturally experience/intuit/sense more of one than the other.

I think I would rather have terrific mental skills and ify social skills than vice versa. The people worth being friends with shouldn't mind a bit of awkwardness. And if they do, I would still have my robot buddies.




I don't remember where I first heard of Daniel Tammet, the English savant, but I remember being fascinated with his story. After a series of childhood epileptic attacks, he ended up with some wires crossed in his brain, causing him to become a synesthist – someone who experiences numbers as colors or tastes (or vice versa). Through this condition, he also can multiply large numbers in his head (think 347 to the power of 4), and can recite pi to over 20,000 digits.

Here's a clip of the first part of a story BBC did on him. This is the type of journalism I want to do:







I've started viewing the people in my house as distractions to my reading. There is probably a happy medium for this sort of thing.

Here's a pi tattoo:

no no no no, stick to the status quo

"It's a shame not to get pregnant here." The man speaking was perfectly serious. No, he wasn't using a bizarre pickup line – he was referring to Sweden's policy of parent worship That's right, a year and a half paid pregnancy leave split between mom and dad.

I know a young, American, pregnant woman who has been working here for around a year. When she found out she was pregnant, she was nervous about telling her boss because she was a new hire. To her surprise, he was excited and supportive of her condition. Work philosophy is different here.

Things I like:

-tubes that are sealed shut and have a little pointy thing on top that you can flip over and use to pierce them. (harder to describe than you'd think)

-bus drivers who wait an extra couple seconds because they see you hurtling towards them like a mad(wo)man

-people who already know how to pronounce my name

-and can spell it

-children

**

I once put up an online bulletin trying to get more volunteers at an elementary school. I titled it "Like kids? A whole lot?" The inside of the post explained that we needed volunteers to come hang out and help with homework.

The one response? "You should think about changing the title of your post."

**

It's amazing the things bored people will do to fill up their time. I've always enjoyed reading the internet forwards about spicing up your life. I think my favorite suggestion was: End every sentence with the phrase "In accordance with the prophecy." I still get a kick out of that.

**

Intelligence is an interesting concept. Geniuses and dummies aside, what do you mean when you call someone smart? Do they have a lot of trivia type information in their heads? Do they pick concepts up really quickly? Do they have an ability to understand more than the average person? (ie. maybe they don't pick things up quickly, but can comprehend more)

I've known some extremely intuitive/perceptive people who aren't skilled at language or numbers, but who can communicate and understand interpersonal relations exceptionally well.

We've all known the seemingly vacuous classmate who can barely find their way out of a room, but who pulls straight A's.

When someone is described as "smart" to me, I either assume a philosophical conversationalist who is well read, or a math/sciencey/nerdy type.

But hey, apparently everything you thought about study habits – including visual/audio learners and right/left brain learners is wrong.

Small Talk Question : Would you rather be exceedingly intelligent and mildly beautiful or mildly intelligent and exceedingly beautiful? Which would get you farther careerwise? relationshipwise? happinesswise?

**

Last night I babysat a 4-year-old named Inaru. She had a wonderful drawer labeled "Make Believe" containing tiaras and fluffy pink skirts and bits of shiny fabric and outfits. I told her I wanted to be a princess. She refused and told me that I would be a dog. So I spent the next ten minutes barking and walking around on all fours as she told me what I could do.

She later asked me if I was an adult, or still a kid. This was the first time I had been asked this question. After assuring her that I was the most responsible, intelligent example of a grownup she could encounter, I turned the question around on her. (One cheap shot deserves another.)

"Are you still just a kid, or are you an adult?"
"No, but I will be one soon."
"How soon?"
"In a few days I think."

**

Babysitting is ideal rehab for recovering sarcastics. Sarcasm simply doesn't translate well to a four-year-old, and when nobody is chuckling at your remarkably pithy comments, you lose your drive.

Case in point: The daughter of a family we were eating with asked my brother and me where ours other siblings were.

I shook my head and said, "We don't talk about them much."

"Really? Why?"

"Because they aren't as attractive as we are."

She just looked at me. My brother, sitting next to her, gave me a look before turning to her:
"We pay her to say things like that."

Again, silence.

i'll be here tomorrow, that is if you're here – and you promise to keep this between you and me

I'm trying to slow down on here. I've been mildly successful this month, but I can't help share a bit of my latest happenings.

I met a boy. Two actually. And they are wonderful, adorable little fairy creatures who talk to me with ready smiles and big, confused eyes. AND they have the best names – Carl (every male in Sweden is or wants to be named Carl), and Edwin (pronounced EdVin). They are six and eight and have been teaching me that I take the English language for granted.

I decided that we would talk about our emotions today – heavy first date topic, I know – and I drew 10 blank circles with a different feeling written under each. We were to discuss what each feeling meant and fill in the circle with an appropriate face.

The first three were pretty easy to draw:
Happy: Smiley Face
Sad: Frowny Face
Angry: Eyebrows slanted, teeth bared

Unfortunately, Edwin didn't know what "angry" was, and I was fairly incoherent in my attempted explanation.

"You know..." I made an exaggerated mad face. "Like that. Like if you don't like something." (By the time I'm done with them, they will be fully acquainted with English filler words.)

He stared up at me.

"Umm...like if you're watching football" – I wildly banked on the European football fetish – "and the other team scores a goal against you and you're like 'No!'" I shook my fist.

In retrospect, if he didn't understand the word "angry," he probably didn't understand my extended explanation. I console myself that it was good for him to hear the words anyways.

**

Angry was the beginning of my definition problems. I also found it difficult to define excited: "Like if you're really happy!" I used my enthusiastic, cheering voice. "Yay! Like if your football team scored and you're really happy!" Hopefully he's a little sporty boy and not a little bookish boy. (Yes, he has to be one or the other.)

Then of course, there were the last few emotions that I stuck in to make an even ten: hungry, calm, hyper.

Hungry = not really an emotion, but very easy to describe/communicate.

Calm = Very hard to mime/act out. "You know, it's when you're like this," I leaned back and looked around, mentally deciding not to use the word "chilled." I'm teaching English, not American teen slang.

"Umm...you know. The opposite of excited. When you're excited, you're all crazy and energetic - you know what energy is? No? Okay well it's like when you have a lot of movement. But this is the opposite. You know what opposite is? No? Okay it's like a different thing. Like happy is the opposite of sad." And so on. I kept reverting back to my actions, except it's pretty hard to act out calm.

As it turns out, it's also hard for a six-year-old to draw "calm" in a smiley face and make it look different than "tired," "hungry," and "confused." It's also hard for a college graduate.

Hyper = The last word on the list, and the one I used because the only other one I could come up with was "depressed" and I wasn't sure how that would go over with mum and dad. And, honestly, I didn't want to attempt that explanation. "It's like when you're sad for a long period of time and lose interest in activities that you used to enjoy, and everything seems meaningless and you can't stop thinking about death..." Hmmm.

So Life Advice: It's hard to describe basic words without synonyms. Especially when your vocal expressions appear to be less universal than you thought.

**

I have also found my dream job: someone who wants to pay me to talk to him in English for an hour every week. Why yes, I'll take your money while you fulfill my need for human interaction. Thank you.

My father, naturally, is displeased at the notion of my meeting a strange man for English lessons:

"No. You are not doing this. I don't like this."
"I'm an adult."
"How many adults have been mutilated and butchered? What kind of an answer is that?"

A few minutes further into the conversation:

"What's his name?"
"(name)"
"What does he look like?"
"I don't know I haven't met him."
"Well you're going to meet up, you'll need a description."
"He told me he was a gangstery looking guy with a knife."
"That's very funny ha ha ha ha ha. I'll tell that to the cops when they ask for a description."

whenever i lose a wrestling match, i have a funny feeling that i've won

I'm starting an ugly nanny service. (OK the cartoon maid is more devious than ugly, I know.) It's a win-win situation. No mom wants a hot young thing around the house, doing her work AND looking better than her. No dad really wants that temptation – or if he wants to cheat, he should use a separate part of his life. (Think Jude Law, etc.) And finally, this is a chance for plain girls to get ahead in life. If they're going to be judged on their looks anyways, why not use it to advantage.

Finally they can embrace facial warts and unibrows and peg legs and tar-stained teeth and greasy hair.

**

I had a professor who told us that all women are beautiful. He really believed it. I thought it was a beautiful thought. And it wasn't even a line.

This could only happen to me

Simply Sweden:
Apparently you can't get through a winter in Sweden without wiping out on the ice patches. Oh, and big shafts of ice also work themselves loose and dive into passerby.

**

Last night I ran around strangling people. Clones, actually. And they were in my dream, so that almost makes it better. I mean it would be problematic to indict someone based on dream crimes. Unless you're talking Inception. But that's a dream too.

The problem with clones is they look like real people. And they're evil. So I was madly running around trying to warn people before they got cloned that a clone of themselves might appear. I tried to explain how to recognize if it was their clone or a real person. In retrospect, this information was fairly superfluous – 95% of the time you're the one who can tell if it's a clone or yourself. You're having a pretty serious identity crisis if you aren't sure whether you are yourself or your clone.

Anyways, the clones tended to give themselves away by repetitively muttering something along the lines of "We want you, we want you." So that was helpful.

I spent my night sprinting towards people, discerning if they were a clone, warning them if they weren't, and violently attacking them if they were. I didn't feel guilty then, and I still don't. They're clones.

**

Right, I know. Nobody really wants to hear about someone's dream. Dreams are filled with intense emotions that don't translate in "reality." They differ from memories because they don't deal with normal laws: time, gravity, our freedom from clones. It's hard for a listener to empathize. And, of course, they aren't "real," so they're considered less significant.

Also, half the time dreams are stupid, but the dreamworld was felt so strongly by the dreamer that he/she thinks it will somehow translate to the listener: "And then we walked over to this building! And I was with Mike, but he looked like Jake, but I knew it was Mike!" Or, the dreamworld isn't fantastic, it's mundane, and the subconscious is having extended conversations with friends. Just sitting and talking.

Fine, nobody really needs to share those dreams.

But what if the most interesting thing I did this week was fight clones? Why shouldn't I tell you about that story instead of how I missed my alarm and was late for the bus and blah blah blah? Most conversations are silly, small-talk affairs; why should it make a difference if our stories happened in our head or in the realm we share with others?

Maybe it's selfish to expect someone to only talk to you about something you could have done.

Clones, man. Get you thinking.

Oh, and next time you're telling someone a dream and they're acting like they actually care, consider these options: Either

1) they are faking it, OR
2) they feel guilty and are trying to make it up to you by listening, OR
3) you are a terrific storyteller, OR
4) they think you are telling them something that actually happened (notice their expression when you mention how you started flying and your cape changed colors) OR
5) your dreams are actually entertaining to the general population, OR
6) your listener is madly in love with you and listening very carefully trying to decipher a hidden symbol of reciprocated affection (ie. in my case: were you a clone in my dream? Did I strangle you or shoot you? etc.)

**

We're house sitting a dog named Peanut. He's small, white and fluffy and we generally refer to him as a "she," despite the Harley Davidson handkerchief his owners tied around his neck in an attempt to avoid such gender confusion.

We also call him Peepee. This is because everytime he sees a leash he gets so excited that he tinkles on the carpet.

**

There are some marvelous radio stations here. This was playing yesterday: