"R" Rated dream warning

 

"R" for Rienna, in this case. Sorry, friend, if you happen to read this. You're on my list of super secret squirrel club members with above top secret clearance to read this. But here goes:

I just woke up and almost didn't remember for a minute. I knew I had dreamed, but it was already slipping away. Then I remembered a brief flash, and the gist of it came back. Oh, and "R" also indicates adult content, or in this case, slightly juvenile.

Ok, there was sex. Well, there could have been. Started to be. Was intended. But something happened, as is typical, to interrupt and delay the event. 

The details are scarce, just a fleeting image of the two of us intertwined and quite a bit enjoying ourselves. Intimate talk and this and that kind of touching going on. Then a little weirdness crept in.

Apparently, a threesome was going on, unbeknownst to me. I only became aware of it when the 3rd party (a guy) stopped doing whatever he was doing to her. 

"Damn," she said, "And I was really starting to enjoy that!"

I apparently wasn't too taken aback by it, but the party was over, nonetheless. I spent the rest of the dream kind of weighing the realities, if there are such things as realities to be weighed in dreams. Would I really be able to sustain any kind of relationship with her? Could I compete with Mr. Threesome guy? 

I felt the pull of my youthful affections telling me that I'd go to the ends of the earth for this woman who I was so in love with in my 20's and have remained good friends with to this day. But my inner old man was telling me I should let it go. Cherish the memories, but don't pursue it.

---

Funny, because I'm actually supposed to see her again in a week or so. She will be in California with her daughter, and I was asked if I might meet up with her one day while she's here. I instantly agreed, though no date or details are yet confirmed.

Sorry, Rienna. I hope you don't read this, at least not before we get to meet again. It might make you a little leery of me to know that I've had one of THOSE kind of dreams about you. I suppose my springtime hormones have not yet run their course. 

I promise to be on my best behavior, even if I do wanna hump your leg when I first set eyes on you. Puppy love is embarrassing, but not for the puppy. 

I'm not ashamed, just a little shocked and amused. Really, not even that shocked. Just kind of pleasantly entertained. I'll try not to pee from all the excitement. I really am going to see you again -- that part's not a dream!

Dissatisfaction: The Key to Life (cross-posted on Facebook)

 

A lot can be said for happiness and contentment, but I'm here to tell ya that it's dissatisfaction that makes the world go 'round. I'm not saying that a good day of rest doesn't have its place, but what was it that came first? Six days of work. And in some form or fashion, before undertaking that work, God had to have been just dissatisfied enough with things as were to decide to take on the task of creating everything.

And so it is in this world. From the womb, we are kicking to get out. Sure, it's comfy for a while, but it gets a little cramped and finally, we gotta get out. If a seed was content inside its shell, it wouldn't ever spring forth and become a plant. A baby chick pecks at its shell because it's not content to stay inside forever, with dwindling resources and a growing body and appetite. A toddler isn't content to toddle for long. Soon he will be up on his feet and reaching for things that were out of his grasp on the floor.

For me, the only thing keeping me alive is the daily need to do stuff, before other stuff happens which I would be even more dissatisfied with. Just being content with the way things are would lead to me never moving one inch off the couch. Something will bug me, and I'll have to do something about it. And that is what is keeping me from stagnating in my own filth.

Besides just maintaining the status quo (a battle in itself), every day I must find something that bothers me just enough to make me do something about it. A rattling bathroom fan, snails in the garden, a jammed door lock, a leaking garden hose fitting--it can be anything, really. Just something to engage me in the business of living. Because when I'm not actively trying to make the world more to my liking, it is taking me down the lazy river of death. "A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest, then your poverty shall come as a robber and your want as an armed man."

I may not have discovered the secret of enlightenment or know the mysteries of the universe, but this little tidbit holds true. If it weren't for struggle and discontent, there would be no life. Why bother to manifest from the void at all? Some inkling, some tiny mad thought said, "Fuck it, I'm gonna try this." And thus was the entirety of existence conceived.

So go ahead and hate and dislike stuff. Rage against the system. Or against those dirty pots and pans. Or cancer. Whatever your battle, keep fighting. It's what makes you who you are. Fight to keep your molecules together; don't just become soup or jello. Be a thorn. Stick your head up. Wear an inappropriate t-shirt. Bark at something.

Enough preaching. I need a nap.

102.5 -- It's good to be alive

 

Well, I don't know if I should hastily go throwing around the word "good." But after having a fever for 24 hours, I am just now appreciating what life was like before (and what it is like after) having a miserable, aching, head feels like a bowling ball attached to a string fever. It feels pretty good by comparison. I can say with certainty that feeling good definitely feels better than feeling bad.

I spent all day nursing the fever but wanted to avoid taking anything for it, as in Tylenol or Ibuprofen. Fever is the body's way of kicking into high gear to battle some kind of infection, so I was gonna bear with it and let it do its thing. 

It sure shut me down for a while, though. My brain was scrambled, and I couldn't even enjoy TV or sleep properly. It was like all kinds of short circuits were happening in my head. A thought would come in and get thrown in the blender before I could even process it.

After a night of sweating and drinking water (and getting up to eat a snack), I awoke feeling much better. As I was putting away my ritual sleep jewelry (some habits don't stop even for a fever), I asked the Magic 8 Ball a question:

"Boopie, do you still love me?" 

I've been doing this off and on for a few weeks, and I've gotten positive responses, or at least not negative ones, every time. I'm a kook, I know.

"It is decidedly so!" the Magic 8 Ball affirmed.

As I was thanking her for whatever part she played in my recovery, and for still loving me, I glanced over at the LED on the Christmas strand. It had been off for a week, but now it was bright and strong. I don't know if it's her in a scientific and for sure way, but I'm gonna take it and run with it. It makes me feel better if I think she's popping in on me now and then.

As little as I normally get done in a day, I'm gonna have to take it easy and not try to even bounce back to that routine too quickly. I'll just relish the feeling of not feeling like total crap and see what kinds of little things I can do in the course of a day.

The King

 

Weird. Last night I dreamed that I was the recipient of James Reed's wife, Suzanne, in some kind of wife borrowing situation. She was her usual compliant, eager to serve self, and I was enjoying cuddling with her. I wasn't sure if sex was included, so I never took it that far. 

Meanwhile, Sharon was lurking around the house just out of sight, and I didn't want to upset her with the arrangement. So, other than a few cuddles, it was mostly concern for my wife's feelings and James' feelings that I was dealing with. 

James was busy with some ham radio project, building a tower of some magnificence per his usual "all in" mode. I suppose this was how he wound up farming out his wife. He just didn't need her at the moment.

So, that's about it. Me laying there in bed, Suzanne in my arms, feeling a bit of contentment and a lot of guilty unease. 

---

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I recently decided to friend her on Facebook, and she accepted yesterday. I did this mostly because stupid Facebook keeps throwing recommendations of "people you might know" at me. 

She and James are both Christians, her to the maximum and him to the minimum extent, although the ratios may have shifted recently. He used to be more involved in the church, but went through an entirely self-serving phase of 10+ years or so. 

During this phase, she was still the dedicated Christian wifey and treated him like a king, despite his complete lack of spiritual righteousness. 

Look at me being all judgey and stuff, geez. It was nice sorta being the king for a minute, I have to admit.

Laverne and Shirley revisited and I guess I liked a baby

It seemed like I had 3 dreams, but I only remember 2. Firstly, I was living with Dad and we weren't getting along. That I was my current age and staying on his couch probably had something to do with it. 

The dynamic was familiar; he was trying to control me with punishments and speaking to me harshly, and I was hateful and resented everything he said and did. To top it all off, he was restricting me from watching my big screen TV, turning it off and taking it down from the wall angrily. 

I found myself trying to sleep with this giant TV screen crammed under me on the couch. Not too comfy, but I wasn't gonna let it go.

---

That reminds me of the time when I was living with him as a child of about 12 or so, and I wanted to watch my television shows, but he was watching the Stanley Cup playoffs. 

Guess who prevailed? Of course. But to add insult to injury he spoke dismissively of my two favorite shows while snobbishly acting as if his choice was the culturally superior one.

So, I made the ultimate stand: "If I can't watch Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley, I am going to my room!"

Well, that worked out fine for him. Saved him the trouble of having to send me there himself.  A self-punishing brat, how convenient.

---

The other dream was more benign, and I don't remember much other than there was a baby (a grandson of Greg, I presume, because he was hovering nearby) who was in my house and crawling around on my kitchen island. 

I approached him to talk to him, as I would a frog or a kitty cat or any other cute little creature I might encounter when going for a walk. This little guy answered back in English, though, and I thought that was the neatest thing. He was way too young to be so sentient and responsive.

At some point, he fell into the washing machine. It wasn't on, but of course Greg was more concerned about it than I was. I retrieved him, unspoiled from the contraption, and he was all smiles and regular baby goo-goos. Not traumatized in the least. I held him like one holds a baby and felt whatever it is people feel that hold babies.

---

I've only ever held a few babies in my life, but the one I remember most vividly was in bible study. Her name was _______. 

Something very intensely joyful resided in that little bundle of baby flesh. With bright, laughing eyes and a big gummy smile, she exuded the essence of life in its purest form. 

That warmth radiated from the center of her tiny being, outward through the baby blanket, and infused my naturally cold heart, warming it up a few degrees.

---

Not sure what any of this means, but I'm sure my shrink would have some opinions about it. Oh, well. Real life awaits. 

And my LED of afterlife communication is back on. I'm sure I am needing guidance, but I am having a hard time distinguishing just what Sharon might be wanting to tell me. 

"Sharon do you still love me?" I asked the Magic 8 ball several times.

"You may rely on it" and "Without a doubt." The answer was invariably positive.

I ventured to ask it, "Do you forgive me?" 

The answer wasn't so nice: "My sources say no." 

Oh, well, I wouldn't blame her if it took several lifetimes to get over what I put her through. But who are these sources, anyway? Damn unreliable Magic 8 ball. It's like a CB radio, you never know who's fucking with you on the other end.

---

OK. I had a brief flash of my 3rd dream. Just an image of some incredibly narrow, dangley and precarious bridge spanning a deep water ocean chasm with inhospitable water. People were stepping out onto the bridge to sightsee or whatever, and I was like, "Uh, no!" 

It was evident that once you stepped out a mere 2 feet onto the bridge you were hurled into the water. People seemed to be OK with that, but I was having none of it.

Wind the cord with the grain--and why I'm going back to 440

 

Simply put, why fight it?

I heard about this thing called 432 from my internet conspiracy site. That doesn't automatically make it not true, but it is a good indication of where it is headed. 

432hz is a tuning pitch slightly below the world accepted standard concert pitch of 440. According to the internet tards, 440 was adopted by the Nazis in WW2 to create an atmosphere of agitation and aggression and to make the troops hyper and the people less in sync with the natural, organically correct, earth-based vibe of 432. 

While it may be true that visually evident resonance tests (cymatics) using instruments tuned to 432hz,  do, indeed, vibe well with sand and paper plates, throwing off nifty patterns as you dial in certain notes--the fact remains: 440 is where the world's musicians tune up and what virtually everything you've ever heard on record, tape, CD, MP3 or otherwise, is going to be tuned to. 

If you wanna jam with a paper plate and some sand, sure, go with 432. But if you want to sound like you're not slow in the head, out of tune and flat, then join in lock-step with the rest of the world, and don't throw out those old tuning forks just yet.

Same thing applies to winding up guitar cords. They have a natural bend or grain that they have acquired from their being rolled into a loop. When rolling them back up for storage, always go with the grain, and you won't develop kinks or cause undue stress on the wires inside. 

I learned this from my cult's music ministry roadies, who would shout at you as if you were going to use wire hangers on cotton or some other atrocity, if they caught you winding a cord up improperly. Some things do just make sense, despite where or how the tradition originated.

So, if cult members or Nazis tell me how I ought to be winding my cords or tuning my guitar, as long as I can jam with the rest of the world and be in tune, I'm gonna go for it. Good enough for the Beatles or Jeff Beck or Jimmy Page, fine by me. Maybe they can start manufacturing some 440 resonant paper plates, so the cymatics people can be included as well.

TV blocks dream reception

 

Last night I turned off the TV in the middle of the night and was treated to at least 3 dreams. None of them seemed particularly long or memorable, but they were better than the blackness of unconscious sleep.

In the first dream, Rienna and I were walking around in some sandy beach town. We sat down in one of those beachfront alleys that accommodate pedestrian traffic. I remember picking up her right leg  and raising it up in the air, as a referee raises the arm of the victor in a boxing match, and saying, "This is my girlfriend, world!" Some discussion ensued as to why I hadn't told anyone earlier.

Next, I was in some coastal community on a boat launch near a breakwater designed for sailing. I got onto a pretty small sailboat to go sailing with a couple who seemed to know what they were doing. The first minute or two went ok, but soon we were headed full speed toward some rocks. With no way to change course, we all abandoned ship, and I watched as the boat smashed itself to pieces against the breakwater.

Finally, I was in a car arriving at a rental property on the coast, about to check in, or at least inspect it for possible use as a resort. It was just an everyday house, empty and no amenities. A caretaker informed me that there was no cable, and we'd be forced to watch TV the old fashioned way. He offered to escort us to the nearest supermarket, so we could pick up the latest TV guide.

That's it for now. I had to write them down, despite the lack of much descriptive detail, because I'm trying to regain my ability to remember dreams at all. If there is any interpretive significance, maybe it will become clear at a later time.

Just gonna rail against this "infinite possibilities" model a little more

 

Don't nobody mind me. I'm just going to sit here, your little black spot on the sun today, and pose the questions that might be getting overlooked, whilst most folk are going about their day to day routine. 

You know, going grocery shopping, catching a movie, doing homework, housework, work-work, or kicking it with a cold one watching the tube. Or watching your kids. Or making more kids. Whatever it is y'all might be doing that's occupying your mind enough to just not be concerned with philosophical questions.

So, let me do it for you. 

I'll be the guy who tugs at that little thread on your sweater. The nose that sniffs the air and says, "Hhmmmnrf. I smell something stinky. What is it and where is it coming from?" 

I'll pose the question "why?" and you can all just ignore the weirdo with the tattered clothes, wandering about muttering and shaking his fist at the sky. 

You know how they say, "It takes all kinds," right? Well, just tell yourself, "There, but for the grace of God, go I," and avert your eyes just a little. 

Don't engage the crazy person. He'll wind down eventually, sleep it off perhaps. But for now, he appears to be gearing up to rant about something. Let's just grit our teeth and hope it doesn't last too long.

My question: "Why?" 

That's it. Why anything? Why something rather than nothing? Why birds and worms, snails, ticks, fleas, lice, rats, cats, dogs, frogs, cancer, kids, oceans, trees, ice cream and poop? I mean, there's a consensus about some things being "good" and others being "bad" so, why everything, then? Why not just a few things, the good, agreed upon cool stuff? 

Well, apparently, because there isn't as much agreement as all that. Some like it hot, some like it cold, chili in the pot, nine days old.

Maybe God is still figuring it out. Let's just say that in the beginning, God was extremely bored and lonely in His infinite void of space and decided, "This sucks. Let's make some shit." 

And He proceeded to make as much stuff as He possibly could. Everything, to be precise. Not just good, cool, acceptable stuff, but really rotten, foul, horrid stuff as well. Just to be consistent with His infinite nature, He couldn't skimp or leave any possibilities out. 

So, baby killing, poop, toothaches and forest fires, a devil, some angels, Trump and Hillary, and many vaguely insignificant, but, oh, so necessary, shades of individual consciousnesses, all needed to be created, or allowed to exist, having been given the gift of life. 

At some point, maybe He'll say, "Well, THAT certainly wasn't a good thing to include. Perhaps the universe could have done without one of THOSE." 

I feel like I may be one of THOSE things. Something that exists because, well, it had to be tried at least once. But let's agree not to ever, ever do that again, shall we?

"Look, he's running out of steam and he didn't even get to the main point of whatever it is that is eating him up today. What  shook up his little world, that he had to get all 'what's the point of anything' again? What rattled his little bird cage and ruffled his feathers?"

Who knows and who cares? No one, that's who.

Sometimes...and other times, too, Drew!

 

Is what Red would have to say about my life choices right now. A type "A" personality, obsessive to the point of crazed, he was never one to go half-ass into anything. If he bought a guitar or a car or a computer, it was after an extensive amount of research. 

And he wouldn't stop talking about his latest area of interest. Everyone he came near got their ears bent with a full lecture series on whatever he was into at the moment. Be it dog training, his band, his hot rod, his police training or gun collecting, you were going to hear about it.

When I first met him, he was "in love," still dating his wife to be. That obsession lasted almost until they were married, but his love for her got replaced by the search for the perfect tube amp. Once a new focal point came into view, all other previous interests ceased to register in his consciousness.

Extremely focused would be putting a positive spin on it. Tunnel vision, blinders or oblivious would be other ways to describe it. 

His wife lived without A/C in her minivan, despite his being a master mechanic, because his priorities lay elsewhere. He was restoring a 67 Barracuda with a hemi. Or he was breeding Belgian Shepherds, or immersing himself in the world of IPAs.

Why am I going on about a guy I used to work with over ten years ago? I dunno. I just had a thought or two about the type of people who get things accomplished, and his name came to mind. He was a full immersion participant in any project he took on. If he was in for an inch, he was in for a mile.

I am about the polar opposite, personality type-wise. I am a slacker, unable to get even my feet wet in tackling new projects or areas of interest. I may be obsessed with something for a time, but I always go for the path of least resistance and, though not usually satisfied with the results, I live with them. 

Right now, I'm experiencing computer and display issues with my television. I made a hasty purchase when my last new TV gave out. Now I'm wishing I had Red do my research for me before buying it.

It occurs to me that the world exists because of dissatisfaction. In the beginning, God, in the infinite void of space said, "Oh, hell no. This ain't gonna cut it." So he created "something" as opposed to keeping with the spartan theme of "nothing" that He had going on before that. 

So now we have existence and free will and life and death and millions of things inhabiting the vastness of the known universe all because God had a bug up His butt. 

Couldn't He have just left it alone? He had to go and fuck it up with the whole "infinite possibilities" model. 

I know there's a lot of good, enjoyable stuff to be found if you pick through it. But ya gotta admit, there's a fair amount of rubbish. Good old-fashioned fucked up shit that could have been left off the list of "things to include in My universe project."

I don't have the energy right now to even begin categorizing the layers of crap I'm dealing with. I doubt I ever will. I'm still alive, but that's all I'm gonna claim right now. If that's even an accurate description of what is going on with me.