Deadlines should be good for something

...but I still don't like anything I've written.

Missed the bus coming home from a party tonight, went to the grocery store, half hoping to run into friends that live in the area, but ended up buying chili and a baguette and going out to catch a different bus, and then walking the rest of the way home.  The wind blowing, somehow sounding soft tonight.  Broken branches and leaves scatter the ground.  I think the trees might like the wind, an opportunity to shake off dead weight.  As one stuck in the same place, the same aspect, how else could you get this done?

This writing thing has gotten to the point that I wake up, shoot straight up in bed, and scream (or a more silent version of that...I have housemates.)

I must've fallen back asleep this morning.  And this is my amusing anecdote of the day.  I dreamt a bunch of my friends were in a show, and I was wondering why I hadn't heard about the audition.  (In waking life, I have seen three of my friends' shows over the past week.)  The stage manager eventually walked up to me, took my right arm by the wrist and the elbow, looked me in the face, and said, "This is your lucky day."  Then I woke up.  Half-hoping my arm would feel better (not really), or that I'd have a story idea (nope.)  And actually, I don't even know what it meant in the context of the dream, since I woke up at that point.  Anyway...I went to a party later in the afternoon, for real.  I know that the person in the dream and the person whose party it was know each other, not sure how well; I've only met dream person a few times, at events that we both worked at.  Out of the whole city, and a decent-sized theatre scene, he was one of ten people at the party when I got there.  Thought about mentioning it, but didn't:  1) Wasn't sure he'd remember me; 2) it's an odd thing to tell someone.  I did tell the host after he'd left.  The host thought the other one probably would've found it amusing.  Still don't know why it's my "lucky day."

Wrote a story this morning that has nothing to do with this other thing (and went for a walk later to look at the aftermath of the wind.)  Someone had posted a video and it reminded me of the encounter I'd had with a bull, on my first trip to Spain.  Anyway, I wrote a story about that.  I remember I'd written home about it at the time, and my mom wrote back saying it was probably because of my red bandana.  (My parents said the same thing about me when I used to get singled out for extra searches in airports; it happened a lot.  On one trip, both my aunt and my sister-in-law were also searched, and they don't look remotely anarchistic.  So, I don't think it's the bandana.)  I may have been wearing orange pants on the occasion with the bull, maybe that upset him.  He basically wouldn't let me pass by, we're talking head down and braying.  Eventually, after about ten minutes of our standoff, this Spanish man came along and I asked if I could walk with him explaining about the bull, he agreed.  And of course when we got near the bull it just stood there grazing as if nothing had happened at all, seemingly pleased with his mark on my journey, making me look as if I was overreacting, but at least I finally got past. (It reminded me of a Gary Larson cartoon.)

Well, I've got a couple of hours to try to write.