Res ipsa loquitur

Last night, I composed an e-mail in my dreams, which said:

1. What does the bandicoot eat?
2. Other than food and water, does she need anything?
3. Can she be petted, or will she bite?
4. Why do we have a bandicoot in the first place?

Y'all, I had the most perfectly, hilariously fannish dream, and I was so disappointed to wake up and discover it wasn't real!

See, there were these books.

The first one was a WWII love story between two soldiers. (Somewhat similar to BJ and Hawkeye from "M.A.S.H." Somewhat similar to Steve and Bucky. No superpowers, though.) It was what we used to call by the inelegant name "fuckfest," meaning there were lots of sex scenes, and each one broke another barrier and made them closer and closer, while they evaded discovery and all that it would have entailed, until at last the Bucky figure was discharged first and went home, at which point (you see this coming) the Steve figure was reported killed.

The second one picked up some years later. The Bucky character had returned to the U.S. He owned a restaurant, and he was married; the marriage had originally been a beard for him and something equally depressing for his wife, but by the time the book began, it was neither loveless nor sexless.

Then (you see this coming), the Steve character reappeared. And he fell in love with the wife. And there was a long period of angst and the establishment of three separate couples, until she instituted a happy plural marriage and they all three lived happily ever after.

These were physical books, but they were slash stories, written by one of us. They weren't trying to transcend the genre or anything; they were just topshelf slash stories. The stories weren't available online for some reason, and the books were hard to find, but I had both of them and was very happy about it.

And then! I was in a used bookstore and I found a copy of a novella that fitted in between them, that told the story of the marriage from its beginnings in negotiated loneliness into its establishment as a peculiar sort of love match! I was so excited! I was just getting ready to come home and read it!

And, damn it, I woke up and it wasn't real!

Had to send my MacBook to the Mac hospital to get the trackpad fixed. (Actually I took it across the river, drove through the parking lot of the Kroger, parked in front of the house with the concrete ducks, and went around back to ring the doorbell -- literal truth.)

So before I went, I locked down my documents folder and deleted all my browser history, the way you do. Didn't want to embarrass the ducks.

So now I have to re-train Firefox, because it doesn't even remember that 'f' means 'take me to fuckyeahfanficflamingo'!

Meanwhile, it would appear that my subconscious heard my plea for better sex dreams, because last night I dreamed I was making out with a late-model Elvis Costello. I'll take it.

but this morning I dreamed that I took a nap. Like, literally, I dreamed that I lay down and went to sleep.

It was doubly restful!

These are not my beautiful fandoms, but last night I dreamed a crossover romance between Ianto Jones and Adam Lambert.

The romantic complication was that they met in Discworld during some great religious celebration, and due to the large amounts of religious adoration that were in the air during this time, people were subject to something called "prayover," in which their emotions were artificially heightened by getting caught in the crossfire of other people's prayers.

Now, Ianto knew he was immune to this effect because of the years he spent studying with the History Monks in the Ramtops. But he was fairly sure that anything Adam might feel was the artificial result of the prayover, so he was resisting, though the story held promise of eventual defeat and consequent angst.

That sentence was in my head when I woke up. I wish I could remember the dream it came out of.

I may be offline for a few days -- I'm having more iBook troubles, and want to get them fixed while it's still under AppleCare. Also, strangely, I seem to be able to receive e-mail but not to send it. Anyhow, however much I've not been in touch recently? Expect me to not be in touch even more.

Have some pie instead.

Last night I dreamed I tempted the Ingalls sisters into a life of crime. (You know, Laura and Mary and Carrie from the books.) When they told me they didn't want to steal, I said, "Well, you need money. You could do yard work instead. You want to do yard work?" And they looked at each other and shook their heads and went back to stealing.

Last night I had a dream that aliens forced Rodney, John, Ronon, and Teyla to -- well, essentially to play kissing games. It was very detailed -- first Teyla kissed each of the guys (and kissed each one differently, as she would, of course), and then Ronon kissed everybody (including Teyla again, and of course it was different because it was their second kiss rather than their first), and then etc. etc. Rodney went last.

I'd save that for a story, except, you know, what's the story? Comparative kissing, awws all around, the end. Maybe I could pass it on to cesperanza for a weapons-and-road-trips draft.

Oh, and on a possibly related subject, a public service announcement: Eleven hours of sleep will do amazing things for your outlook on life.

I was tempted to do that meme where I ask you all about your impressions of me as a writer, except that I figure there's nobody out there who's half as fascinated by my writing as I am. So, taking my cue from godofwine, I'll give you my list of the telltale signs that you're reading a Res story:

( Telltale Signs )

Also, last night I dreamed I was playing bingo with pirates, so clearly my life is lacking in excitement.