I'm easy like Sunday morning

I'm so easy. A few big riffs, a good voice and above all vocal harmonies get me every single time. And so it is, that we come to Burning Libra. Acquintances, a few of them, and my oh my how I've fallen for their song "Of the Essence". If I had to make a comparison, I would point to Onesidezero's "Is This Room Getting Smaller?".

And don't they look the part too?

Gulliver had a new career as a photographer

The torch of doubt and chaos, this is what the sages steer by

The day started well enough. Woke up before the alarm, to warmth and hugs. Maybe the nervousness before an 11 hour flight stirred something in me, butterflies in the stomach and all that, and woke me, or maybe it was just the fact that I usually get up at 0545 and now I woke up at 0635. Some internal clock going off. "Wakey wakey! Rise and shine! I've got a nice cuttlefish for you when you wake up!"

I wasn't pushing up the daisies though, nor bereft of life. Not even tired, really. Excited. On the move. Being the control freak that I am, lists of what to pack and what to get done were completed weeks ago. Started laying stuff out in neat piles on the living room table during the weekend. Packed most things last night.

And then off to the airport. Mah Girl walked me to the train station, which is ten minutes from our apartment, and then I rode a train from there all the way to the airport. No changing at Centralen, no lugging of luggage from one end of the station to the other. Sweet.

Arrived at Arlanda with three hours to kill. Scratch that. Four hours. Why? My flight to Kuala Lumpur is delayed. Already. By an hour. Not a good start of the journey proper.

Then problems at check-in, something with the ticket that said I was going to KL and KL only. I spotted it when she tagged by back as "ARL to KLU", not "ARL to AKL via KLU". She looked a bit embarrased, and then spent ten minutes trying to convince whatever evil system she was working in that yes, I was supposed to go to Auckland. Airport voodoo was performed and the system acquiesced.

Now I'm at a café in the airport, having consumed a surprisingly moist piece of carrot cake (from a distance it looked like a brick, but it was still the most appetizing thing they had), tapping away. The wifi here is ridiculously expensive, so I'm writing everything I plan to post/send ahead of time.

A little more than two and a half hours to lift-off. The butterflies in my stomach have settled down. Or maybe they're just smothered under the carrot cake...

We are such stuff as dreams are made on

We saw Anton Corbijn's “Control” on Sunday. Spectacular movie, even though I'm not really a Joy Division fan. Black and white, long sweeping shots, and so mind-numbingly tragic I think it's a good idea to hide away any razorblades you have at home if you're going to see it.

On Sunday night I had nightmares. If you know anything about Joy Division, you know how that particular story ends. To me it wasn't surprising that I dreamed of Henrik. So sleep was frequently interrupted, and I was a very unhappy camper on Monday morning.

Then, between Tuesday and Wednesday, I had nightmares again. And bad. Really frickin' bad. I woke up screaming, at 0330. I haven't done that since I was fifteen or so, dreaming of falling endlessly into darkness. Unless you count that one time when a painting fell off the wall over the bed and landed on my leg.

This time the nightmares were all nooses, dead bodies and spiders. Big hairy fuckers. Spiders are the emissaries of Satan, only eclipsed by earwigs, who are actual children of Beelzebub. And the nooses, swinging from rafters, from staircases, made from rope, extension cords, wire. Bodies strewn all over, cold and dead. So I woke up screaming, and during what little sleep I had the nightmares continued to plague me.

Photo by Lynn Radeka. Used with permission

I really do believe that dreams are all about the subconscious processing things that your conscious mind can't or won't. I know I still have a lot of issues around his death, and that my number one fear is the death of those closest to me. The most powerful dreams I've ever had have been about death and loss, usually involving people I care deeply about.

So what to do? I'm not sure there's anything I can do. This time the nightmares were obviously triggered by the film, so maybe I should avoid pop culture references to suicide, especially by noose. Then I guess it's all down to time. That and maybe a couple of therapy sessions...

We're like the Mob, only less violent. Ultimately responsible for more death and destruction

We're coming up on the end. Since December 23rd, we've watched 149 episodes of The West Wing. 149 episodes in 24 days. Yay, us! Quite the achievement.

It is the second best drama series I've ever seen, after Six Feet Under. And yes, ege, Sorkin's absence is noticeable, particularly during season 6, but (and this is with five episodes left) season 7 makes up for that.

On a related subject, I find myself irritated that I didn't buy this version of the seven season box set. I will go wipe away the drool now.