trinityofone | Good Book Hunting & Merry Meta-Dreams

So I obviously smoked some serious crack before going to bed last night, because my dreams were a multifandom extravaganza.

First, I dreamt that I was taking a class on...actually, I have no clue what the class was supposed to be on, just that our class assignment was to analyze and critique "fan erotica," as the teacher called it. Of course, in the kind of coincidence that could only occur in a universe that's ALL ABOUT ME (i.e., my brain), the work chosen was my very own Sexual Healing. As the discussion commenced, I proceeded to do the world's worst job of pretending that the story was not mine--saying things like, "By that line, I intended--I mean, the author intended..." I wasn't particularly embarrassed, however; just increasingly ticked off that the rest of the class was taking the story seriously. "Sheppard and McKay's emotional reactions don't really ring true to me," one classmate said, leaving me bellowing, "Of course they don't! It's crack!" So really this was much less a bad dream about getting outed as a fanfic writer, and much more the nightmare of a writer afraid of people misinterpreting her work.

Also, for whatever reason, my FirstCrush (TM) was a member of the class. This was a guy I knew in Vermont named Ben Hart--I swear to God, I am not making that name up. Oh, FirstCrush--where are you now?

After the LitCrit dream, I dreamt that I was floating on my back over a vast green field filled with delicate white flowers. It actually would have been quite like a feminine hygiene commerical were it not for the fact that the whole thing was scored by Christophe Beck's "Suite from 'Restless.'" It was a meta-dream! And I was aware that it was a dream, especially when the field was replaced with a neatly manicured cemetery. This change corresponded exactly to a particular sting in the Beck score, so I got really nervous and woke myself up. (Did I want the First Slayer turning up? No.) This morning I looked up "cemetery" in a dream dictionary, and it said that a well-groomed one signifies positive changes. I dunno. It just felt menacing, man. *shudder*

When I finally managed to get back to sleep, I dreamt that Ron, Harry, and Hermione were running across a park at night. My POV alternated between Ron's and Hermione's. At one point Ron tripped and fell on top of Hermione; one of those "Oh! Inappropriate feelings for my friend!" moments resulted. To test the theory, Ron tackled Harry to see if this evoked the same emotional response. It didn't. (My subconscious? Disappointingly not a slasher.) Then the scene switched to some sort of garden party. There was a contest to see who could cast the best levitation spell. Hermione grabbed Ron around the waist and made them both rise up high into the clouds, to much "Ooooh!"ing from below.

At this point, my brain obviously decided it had had enough of writing bad Ron/Hermione fic (seriously--why? why?), and focused instead on the people in the crowd. Two of them were Brian Kinney and my uncle Nick. They got pushed together by the movement of the masses, looked over at each other, and realized that they were wearing the same outfit. (Jeans and a purple-y patterned shirt.) This is amusing because:

1) My uncle Nick is like, the straightest man in existence--and in a totally confident, would actually wear a purple shirt way. (He's a musician.)
2) I think, oddly, that he and Brian Kinney would actually get along. There's something similar about their senses of humor.

So basically, my subconscious either knows more than it's telling, or else it's completely insane.

Yesterday, I finally got fed up with Trinity's intensely irritating library and went to see if I could find a good used bookstore. For a city that trades so much on its literary reputation, used bookstores are not thick on the ground here in Dublin. Everyone talks about Books Upstairs, which is right across the street from campus, but I've been in there twice and--how can I put this delicately?--it sucks. It has, like, four books in it, and three of them are by Dan Brown. (The fourth is some pretentious piece of literary theory--gag me.)

Anyway, I had heard that Abbey Street had a couple of decent places, so I took the long way 'round, mostly to avoid crossing the River Liffey at O'Connell Street--it's always horribly congested. I ended up in Temple Bar completely by accident, and, I think, stumbled across U2's recording studio there. I think. I didn't look too closely. *is resolutely Not A Stalker*

I started out with a list of ten books, and on Abbey Street I was able to find three of them. Two were at Chapters, which has a decent, if horribly organzied, used section. (What is with bookstores that insist on dividing fiction into "Literature" and "Fiction" sections? It's not only pretentious, it's stupid--you end up with the same book shelved in multiple places, and nobody can find anything. Chapters was even worse--I stumbled across The Great Gatsby in "Literature," "Fiction," and "Classics.") The third was at a bargain store that basically looked like a room where somebody had emptied a carton of books out onto the floor--and not in a good way. Then today I managed to pick up two more at Hodges Figgis, which almost wins Favorite Bookstore on name alone--it sounds like it should be located in Diagon Alley. ;-)

In case anybody's curious, these are the books I was looking for:

1. Tony Adams, Addicted
2. Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
3. Poppy Z. Brite, Exquisite Corpse
4. Jack Finney, Invasion of the Body Snatchers
5. H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon's Mines
6. Robert Henryson, Henryson's Fables
7. James Hogg, Memoirs of a Justified Sinner
8. Thomas More, Utopia
9. Bram Stoker, Dracula
10. Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel

Seven are for class, three are potential pleasure reading. Anyone who can guess which three (or which one of the others I've actually read previously) will impress me deeply, and probably knows me better than I know myself. ;-)

(Oh, and in case anyone is in terrible suspense: I found the Haggard, the Hogg, the More, the Stoker, and the Wolfe. You can rest easy now. *g*)

ANYWAY...none of this was actually the highpoint of the day. That was my discovery of what I think must be the only Mexican restaurant in Dublin. It's called Taco Taco, it's in a food court off Abbey Street, and it's really not that good. But MY GOD--I ate a quesadilla yesterday, and it was the best thing I had ever tasted. I think I must've been experiencing salsa withdrawal. Bless you, Taco Taco. Bless you.

Current Mood: satisfied
Current Music: U2, "Acrobat"

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