In my last WRIT100FictionSection class, we talked about how we start the writing process. One person said they go to sleep, because they find dreams to be a good source for ideas.
I had a dream last night where I was drunk. Surprise, surprise. And the city I was in was a triple-city combo: Victoria, Portland, and San Francisco. And maybe some third world country, too, at some point. First, I was in downtown Victoria. Similar to what happens in real life sometimes, I couldn't remember
what order the streets were in because the intersections are all
similar, and they get jumbled up in my head. I said, standing on Johnson Street, "I've lived here for two and a half years; I should know the streets like the back of my hand by now." Was I with someone? And I've been here longer than that. But I lived in Chile for two and a half years.
Then, I was waiting for the #14 bus, the one I take almost every day, but on the #6 route way out in Esquimalt, and when I realized this, I hopped on the #4 going down the cross street, and then I was in San Francisco. A couple of friends were on the bus, too, and I said, "This bus is not going to UVic, is it?" And they were like, "No, to Hillside." Which might have actually made sense if I hadn't been in San Francisco, because Hillside Mall and UVic are on the #4's route, but the scenery, of course, was totally different.
I jumped off the trolley (yes, trolley now) and started running to Yates Street, because I knew the #14 would go down it (in the opposite direction from UVic, mind you). I ran, and I ran, and I remember there was a lot more running after that. I ran past the courthouse on Blanshard Street in Victoria, and could see where I needed to get to again. My face was bright red, I was out of breath and drenched in sweat, so I stopped at the Red Lion Inn on Douglas Street, except it was actually a colourful tent in a China Town I didn't recognize. There was Johnny, the owner of the dim-sum restaurant in the Red Lion Inn, who we see every six weeks after we get our hair done. There were a lot of old Chinese men, and they all looked at me.
Gasping for air, I said, "Can I have a glass of water, please?"
Johnny turned around, and turned back with a glass in his hand.
At this point, I distinctly remember thinking whether or not I should chug the water, or drink it slowly so that my thirst would be better quenched. A compromise: I chugged half of it. The men were staring at me. I was wearing a black suit (somehow I realized this at that moment). I sloshed a sip of the remaining water in my mouth. The men kept staring. I swallowed the water, took another long sip, sloshed the water around in my mouth some more, letting every corner of my mouth get a little water, and I swallowed again. I'm surprised I didn't gargle. I did this four or five times, still being stared at, still in silence.
"Thanks," I said, and wiped my face with my black blazer, put on a pair of badass black sunglasses that I don't actually own. Then, remembering I was drunk, I thought about how drinking water and sweating would help me sober up. When I started running again, I dropped my iPod, keys, and sunglasses, which were now my mom's brown sunglasses. I picked up my stuff and shoved it in the ridiculously deep pocket of my black trousers.
And then I woke up.
I think I'll stick to other means of story idea formation.