Author Archives: Christene

A Dream

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I had the strangest dream last night, and wanted to write it down before I forgot it. It was December 30 and I was in a major city where the weather was frigid. It was snowing outside and I was walking towards a tall building with the intention of going to the top to take pictures of the beautiful city at night. The building was unlike anything I had ever seen. From the outside it looked as if there were no windows, and you would be exposed to the elements as you ascended the massive stairwell each level. There was nothing within this building except a small landing at each floor with a square planter filled with crystal rocks and a few decorative sticks. The closest reference point to these sticks would be this piece from my living room (above). It spans about 5 feet so I could only get a small shot of it, but imagine those sticks in a much larger vase surrounded with tiny baubles. Every floor had one of these and it was known that you could not touch them. No where did it state this, but each small crystal contained a memory. Whose and how they came to be there was never made explicit. Yet placing your hand inside any of these planters would produce an inundation of memories, more than your mind could handle, and age you indefinitely – no one would ever live long enough to leave the building.

I was planning on ignoring the planters, simply take a few pictures and leave. The building did not look more than 20 stories high, but after having entered it and climbed six or seven stories it became obvious that there was no top. You could see the top – a strange spindle like monument (think of a steam punk cross between the top of the Empire State building and the Seattle Space Needle), but no matter how many floors you went up, it looked just as far away as it did from the ground.

Inside the building there were in fact windows, and it was warm, but you could not see the outside correctly. All the windows, regardless of what floor you were on showed the image you get at the third floor. I don’t know why the third, but it was always the third. At some floors the windows were open, but you still could only see the third floor view. The landings were also much larger than they appeared from the outside, and some floors had rooms that by all reason should be located outside of the building architecturally, as if the inside of the building had different dimensions than were perceivable from the outside. On the fifth floor there was a gift shop selling small Hello Kitty trinkets. The sixth floor had an office. The door was wide open, no one was inside, and it looked like it belonged to some sort of bookkeeper. When I got to the eighth floor I decided I had had enough and wanted to just take a picture there and be done (at this point uncaring that it still had the third floor view). But instead of taking a picture, even though my mind was telling me to just take it, and despite that by all rational it should have gotten colder the higher I got, I decided I was unbearably warm and took off my coat instead – I would not take the picture. Then inexplicably I left my coat on the stairway and started going back down. I got to the seventh floor and realized I had not taken my picture but now I couldn’t because my camera was in my jacket pocket. So I went up again to get my camera (but oddly not the jacket), and after I picked it up, once again instead of taking a picture I started going up some more. Then down, and up, and shortly I was no longer able to recognize which direction I was headed, but simply went up and down the same four or five flights of steps, becoming increasingly discombobulated not knowing what floor I was on.

I stopped at one of the floors and finally took a picture, not of the window, or the city, but of the odd vase ornament with the protruding sticks. Then I knelt next to it to look at the crystals. I knew what they were, and knew I should not get so close to them. I put my hand inside.

I am pretty sure there was more to the dream after that, but I don’t remember any of it. I woke up and started crying – I don’t know why.

Hair Everywhere

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I was bored last night and started reading some beauty magazines online. It appears a problem a large part of the female population is having (and men might be having this problem as well, but I don’t know) has to do with the fullness of hair. I don’t necessarily mean amount of hair, but rather volume, or poofiness, or whatever it is  you want to call it. This is unfortunate for two reasons.

First, I have never had this problem. In fact, I believe I have too much hair, and at times my shedding gets out of control. I have friends who will testify that after I leave their homes they have to vacuum, at times even insinuating that I may be the reason they have to replace their vacuum cleaners so often. I am skeptical of such accusations, but I have to admit if I as much as shake my head in your direction you will be covered in a thin layer of red hair. So the last thing I need is more hair, or the appearance of it.

Which brings me to the second reason this is unfortunate (that is basically just an extension of the first reason, and really not much of a second reason at all). Because so many articles are dedicated to making women’s hair more poofy, there are less articles out there for women who have other issues. I would love to read an article on how to apply make-up to camouflage  the fact that I have only had two hours of sleep and my eyes look like I could use an ice bag. Where is *that* article, Elle?

Cosmo, put down the curlers and hair ties and tell me how smiles work. Because if you have seen my pictures lately, I look terrified in like 90% of them. This can’t just be a me thing. Right? No?… okay fine. Y’all can look glamorous in all your photos while I look like a goblin just jumped out of my coffee. I’m okay with this.

Speaking of which, Glamour, can we stop with the dry shampoo for a second and spend some time investigating mascara that doesn’t make you twitch? I am beginning to think my sight would be much better if I wasn’t continuously poking myself in the eye.

And maybe I would also stop seeing goblins in my coffee.

And In Shape, instead of focusing on how to maintain poofy hair while taking a jog, how about an article about actual running paraphernalia that finds me a pair of running shoes which don’t have a three months breaking in period? I would like to walk around without a limp again sometime soon.

Since every major brand of magazine wants to tell me what hair style is currently in style (read: everything poofy), perhaps In Style can focus on updating my wardrobe and accessories. The 80’s and 90’s have long departed, except in my closet because I was too busy teasing my hair to notice.

So while everyone else is trying to reinstate the afro, I really think we could deal with other, more important issues in the fashion industry. Like how to successfully wear sunglasses without getting that stupid little tan line on your nose.

Or at the very least how to find a concealer for said tan line. Hrm?

Nirvana

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I recently got in touch with a friend who used to be my “best friend” about twenty years ago. Facebook is amazing like that. And of course the first thing we did was begin talking about how much we enjoyed spending time together back then, all the things we used to do (i.e. go to the mall and paint each other’s nails), and caught up on what happened to us since.

One of the things we both had the most vivid memory of was her old room where we would spend countless hours doing practically nothing while listening to bad 90’s music. I confessed to her that I don’t really like Nirvana, and probably never did. She did and still does, so I had to explain that that is precisely the reason I was so into them at the time. Everyone loved Nirvana and even though I didn’t understand it in these terms they were a cultural phenomenon that could not simply be balked at – they represented a movement that was simultaneously antiestablishment and totally mainstream, and in order to maintain any semblance of normality in the eyes of your peers, you had to like Nirvana.

So I bought Nevermind and when In Utero and From the Muddy Banks of Wishkah came out I embraced them wholeheartedly as perhaps my only means of having anything in common with those in my immediate surroundings. I spent years discussing their amazingness and how they revolutionized music. While secretly I was more in love with Kurt Cobain’s wife, Courtney Love, and her band, Hole. In fact I am listening to her right now as I write this, and realize why I like her so much better, but why Nirvana will always have a special place in my memories.

Hole’s lyrics resonated with me then, even more now, and at various other points in my life, always applying themselves in the same way. Yes, I am doll parts, doll eyes, doll mouth, doll legs, and I have always wanted to be the girl with the most cake, but as much as I never wanted to arrive anywhere dowsed in mud or soaked in bleach, it is the latter words that bring back the fondest memories. For better or worse, or however you want to look at it, Smells Like Teen Spirit, not Celebrity Skin, was blaring in the background as we were experimenting with silver glitter polish and blue lipstick believing these things would get the attention of men like Renton from Trainspotting.

Things changed, I ended up with different friends, but Nirvana always managed to weave itself in and out of my social circles to where I could recognize and name any one of their songs in only three beats. Later on when I met S, despite that he had not grown up with Nirvana, he was an ardent fan. When his Bleach tape broke, I was the one who bought him the album again. Even later on I recall being at a New Year’s party, long after Nirvana’s heyday, and one of my friends was attempting to explain to another Nirvana’s music genius. He emphatically stated “You just don’t understand!” and I thought, yes, and no, I don’t. However, I was beginning to understand my affinity for the band had less, or nothing, to do with their music, or even what they represented culturally/socially, but rather with what they meant for me. They were just another band that acoustically triggered fond memories, and in a Pavlovian-like sense, you play Heart Shaped Box, and I get the urge to eat junk food and have my nails done.