Justice Goat
November 18
I had an odd dream last night (actually, I had a couple of odd dreams last night, and have had several odd dreams in the past week, but most of them are of no interest-- I mean, do you really want to hear the dream about how I had Thanksgiving dinner with Alyson Hanigan, dressed much as she is in the For Him photo spreads? Hmm, well, maybe you do, but this ain't that kind of journal. For the most part).
Last night, I dreamed of Justice Goat.
It's important to note that Justice Goat does not wear a cape, as many superheroes do (no, not even a red-white-and-blue striped cape; I'm pretty sure Justice Goat comes from some benighted mountain realm where territorial borders are in continual dispute, and that J.G. is not nationalistic in any sense of the word). Justice Goat is not anthropomorphic; he is just a goat. With great intelligence, near-invulnerability, and a stubborn streak, yes-- but still, to look at, just a goat, horizontal pupils, cloven hooves and all.
At one point in the dreams he rather inexplicably had small wheels instead of hooves, but I'm prepared to assume those were some sort of roller-skate-like conveyance, rather than evidence of any bionic-ness on Justice Goat's part.
It was a dream, okay? So there's no real plot, no through line. Just Justice Goat racing through mountain passes, zooming along, beard whipping in the wind. And, at one point, Justice Goat resolutely butting his head against a huge door, while a large Samoan man (a sidekick of some sort?) says in awe "That Justice Goat, he just don't give up."
There is sometimes great power in dreams, and I think my subconscious has given me the makings of the world's next great hero.
Long live Justice Goat. And may he prevail in his struggles against various villains and, of course, his nemesis, the steam-powered, black-iron Robo Goat. Who did not appear in my dream, but who seems to me the obvious choice for a villain...
And you know, I might actually write a children's story about Justice Goat. Why not?
***
A lazy, mostly nice weekend, except for the exploded pimple beneath my lip... it appeared yesterday morning. Apparently I was picking at it in my sleep... it's gross, yo. It's healing, now, and with luck won't look too awful tomorrow...
In nicer news... Yesterday Heather and I went to see The Man Who Wasn't There, which I liked a good bit. We spent most of the day out and about, actually, having lunch at Mama's, sitting and reading at the tea bar (I read John Shirley's Demons, which I gotta review tomorrow, and finished Barrayar), browsing in the bookstore (where I bought Summer of Night by Dan Simmons, having read a long review of the sequel, A Winter Haunting and thus becoming intrigued; Tea From an Empty Cup by Pat Cadigan, and Darwin's Radio by Greg Bear, after reading countless reviews about how much better it is than his new novel Vitals, which I haven't read and don't intend to). Heather bought Molly Gloss's Wild Life (which won a Tiptree, right? Or am I misremembering?) and a copy of Cole's Short History of San Francisco, which we both read and loved when she checked it out from the library. Last night we cooked, soup and salad and sandwiches, and (oddly enough) watched most of Predator. Very strange, but restful.
Today was pretty uneventful. I lolled around most of the day, and read Tea From an Empty Cup. Didn't like it much. Flat characters, an all-concept novel whose concepts didn't interest me very much. Readable, certainly, but nothing to write home about. Cadigan's stuff always makes me feel stupid, like I'm missing something-- but I've decided that that's her failing as a writer, not my failing as a reader; she just isn't clear enough. (Sometimes, I freely admit, I'm dumber than the stuff I'm reading, but I don't think I'm dumber than Cadigan's work)
Otherwise... Well, Heather was productive. She re-potted plants. And we did work on our secret project, which we should be telling y'all about in a couple of weeks, barring the unforeseen. Now I'm reading Summer of Night, which seems very in the vein of It and Boy's Life, both books I adore. I think I'll like it. I don't think I've read anything of Dan Simmons's before. I hope I like this, that I've found a new writer whose backlist I can devour...
Read Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet #9 this weekend. Good story by Eliot Fintushel called "Drought," good poetry by Mark Rudolph... lots of good stuff, actually, but those are the ones that most struck me.
Tonight involved more couch-lolling, and reading old issues of The New Yorker. Heather wanted to take me to a Mexican Restaurant, but it turned out to be closed, so we had dinner at Rockridge Café, instead, which is a pretty standard diner (but it's a California diner-- you can get ginger-soy salmon there). Good pie and ice cream. Then back home, for snuggling, tickling, talking, me massaging Heather's back with the scarily powerful Hitachi Magic Wand...
All weekend I've been repeatedly struck by how much I love Heather. How important she is to me; how vital she is to my understanding of my own life. How our lives are growing together, intertwining. She's beautiful, always, but many times this weekend the light has touched her in a particular way, and looking at her I feel my heart surge up, I want to be close to her, I want to look at her that way forever, carry her in my heart. And I do. She lives in my heart; she is quite firmly there; she will be a permanent resident.
