Seinfeld

You know you're social life could use some real humans in it when you have dreams of TV characters. 

 

I dreamed I was working in a cosmetics factory with Elaine and George from Seinfeld. We were responsible for quality control of some kind of lotion. Our job was to categorize the two types of defects that could be found in products that didn't make the cut. One was the dried up, yellowing yogurt effect, where the lotion lacked moisture and had the cracking, hard texture of old sour cream. The other was the gloopy cornstarch effect, where excess surface moisture would run off when the container was tipped slightly. I made some comment that cracked George up, while Elaine just looked disgusted.

That's all I recall, so I won't try to embellish it. I do watch reruns of that show pretty faithfully in the late hours before bed, so I won't read too much into it. My nocturnal programming could retain elements of my TV viewing habits, even though I turn it off before I go to sleep. 

I have been letting some random hypnosis audio files play throughout the night on my computer, and I have no idea what exactly they are saying, since I never really listen while I'm awake. The topics range from grief to self-improvement, pain control, transcendence, other worlds, past life regressions--you name it. The places I might wind up are endless. But last night, for whatever reason, I was taken to the cosmetic factory with a couple of TV show characters.

Ok, moving on. My spell checker really doesn't like that last paragraph. The whole thing is underlined. Well, you know what, spell checker? Fuck off, why don't ya? I ain't messing with it. I barely thought this was worth writing in the first place. I'm doing it out of obligation to stay faithful to my documentation of dreams, not writing a work of literary grade material.

 My life is more interesting these days, but I don't have the spare energy to relive it in these pages. I have plenty of documentation in the form of personal correspondences on Facebook messenger, but that is an altogether private venue and I won't betray the trust of someone I care about by tabloidizing it here. I may have learned just a little bit from losing one friend over that.

Meanwhile, I better get going and head to the store. I have no real food for breakfast and I may just try to make my shopping trip happen early enough that I can get back and cook something decent. Or I may lay here for another hour, because it's cold out and I just don't see myself shopping at this hour. Yeah, probably the latter. Frozen food it is. I do have more corresponding to attend to.

Guinea hens on my roof

I dreamed of Rienna last night. I don't know why that would happen. I've been specifically putting in requests for Lesa dreams. I haven't really even thought of Rienna much lately, since I felt snubbed by her for canceling our meetup in July. Regardless, I dreamed we met somewhere and it was awkward at first, as I was unsure of what to do. I made an unmistakable subtle touch of her hand, and we wound up holding hands and exchanging some caresses. 

I kept having the feeling that this was not exactly going according to script. She shouldn't be there and I shouldn't be holding her hand. There was another hand, somewhere else, that I was pledged to be holding, but here I was, being a hand slut with her. I actually had the conflicted thought in my head, "Maybe I'll hold both of these girls hands and just not tell the other."

I never got to the other hand, or the other girl, who failed to materialize in the dream. I'm not even sure it was Lesa. It really seemed to be Lori, my forever penpal of squirrel's club fame. (Ha! I'm just reporting the facts here, no comments or judgments from the peanut gallery!)

 

So, there I was, kind of wandering around a town I was not quite familiar with, Rienna as my companion. She said a person who I knew from the past wanted to debate me again on the subject of love. I was reluctant at first.

"I hate debates," I told her. I really do.

"You won't hate this one. I'll schedule it. It's with so and so,” she said. The name eludes me, but it was an East Indian fellow, whom I'd presumably debated before.

"Oh, in that case, yes," I actually felt excited as I agreed to another debate with Parminder, Parcheezie, whatever his name was.

With that in the works we had nothing but time to kill, so we sat down and Rienna started playing some X-Box game. It had to do with little animals on a roof and you had to direct their movements with the familiar controller. 

She was just figuring out the movements, but I just had to jump in and grab another controller and enter the game. I wasn't sure I could do it without interrupting her game, but whatever, there I was inserting myself into the action.

That's about where it ended as I awoke to the sound of guinea hens traipsing across my roof. I am too cold to get up and try to chase them off. Plus, I'm not sure what strategy is going to work. They have the defensible ground. I'd have to get up there with them and bring my big, scary umbrella and perform the flapping ritual, which always seems to send the scurrying off in a jiffy.

Well, that's handy. I've been without power for 4 days. I'm unshowered, and lying here with my laptop for warmth as well as for my backup device for journaling. I have been using it for composing my daily communiques with Lesa, who by now has become my online girlfriend. 

Things have come so far in the last 2-3 weeks, it's astounding. We've gone from "Hello, old friend" to "I love you," with all sorts of emojis and steamy good night wishes thrown in along the way. I'm in the midst of my own star-crossed lovers fantasy story involving me, the girl I dated in high school and the obstacles which are keeping us from consummating our newly rekindled affections.

I haven't been blogging about it because I've been using 99 percent of my CPU capacity messaging back and forth with her. Even if I have to fire up the generator at odd hours to send messages, I will do it. I don't have enough food that is anywhere near the spoilage point, so I know it is simply my own exuberant obsession that makes me do it. 

I'm smitten, struck with the love bug and I won't make any excuses or explanations for it. I feel what I feel and this is what I feel, although the fact that she's reciprocating my sentiments makes it all quite unreal and dreamlike.

So, for now I'll curtail the journaling, except to record random dream entries, faithfully, and unrevised, even though the contents may be incongruent with my rational mind or my current state of affairs in the hand holding department.

Weird enough to have to mention

 

I'm trying to target my dreams to include a certain individual. It's not going as planned, though. Lesa and I have been wishing each other "sweet dreams" and other such sentiments in our correspondences, and I've been try to dial her in during my nightly excursions into dreamland. 

I go to sleep in a fairly heightened state of excitability, due to the lovely contents of her messages, so I'm some kind of hormone fueled mess while in my dreams. Pulling in her image has proven to be difficult, though.

I dreamed I was talking with some Latin dude. I'm guessing we were roommates of a sort. We were discussing the finer points of dating, the whos and hows of where we would cast our nets. I don't know how it was, but somehow I found myself in his net. 

Well, this was a fine predicament. It appeared I was being drawn down that road with him, unwittingly. I wasn't exactly protesting, but it wasn't what I was expecting. I'd had my eye on another Latina beauty, perhaps his sister or a relative.

Things morphed, as they do in dreams, and I found myself dancing with the aforementioned girl. She was an alluring, wicked Felina type, you know of the Marty Robbins "El Paso" variety. It was a wonderful feeling, having my arms around this tempting creature as we sailed around the room effortlessly. Still, it was not Lesa.

Later, I was out hunting and scavenging for clothing to wear to some event. Me and some other guy, I believe it was Jose Heredia, an old work buddy and Facebook friend, were going to a soiree, presumably to pick up chicks. I had an outfit in a box which was unopened, and I planned to change into it when we got there. 

When I got there, I greeted the doorman, who appeared to be Napoleon Dynamite, with this odd greeting: "Hello, Lesa!"

I then proceeded to a darkened area to change. Opening the box I found the shirt to quite a disappointment. It was some polyester see-through  number, kind of a two layer business with glittery sparkles in the outer fabric. 

"What is this shit?" I asked Jose. I had no choice but to wear it. "I hope this is what the kids are into these days, because it's a little late to take it back now."

What weird game is my psyche playing with me now, Dr. Freud? Maybe I'll mention it to my shrink, maybe not. I'll be opening a whole can of Spaghetti Os which she may not be qualified to deal with. 

Is gender fluidity in the dreamworld something I should be concerned about? Or am I going to just have to roll with it since I don't seem to have mastered the tuning knobs of my dream reception as yet? I'm probably just gonna go along for the ride and take unbiased notes, as I try to do with all my dreams. 

Have fun with this one, silent judges!

Well, durn

 

I was hoping for a certain special kind of dream last night, after a conversation I was having with Lesa took an unexpected turn. I'm going to only say this much about that: I was so pleased with that late night chat and our online relationship's recent development that I had to wake up to make sure that it wasn't the dream.

I'll have to say no more, for fear of jinxing myself, only that she said words to me that were so heartfelt, so personally gratifying, that I thought I'd just die right then and there. 

I was having a hard time believing that I was engaging in that kind of talk with someone I knew, and for whom I had feelings; and to top it all off, it was this person who shared actual, real-life experiences and memories with me. Sure, that was over thirty-five years ago, but they were such fond memories that they have stayed in my mind freshly preserved the whole time.

I did dream, though. It was an odd bit of incongruous imagery. I was with Sharon. We were at a weird mashup version of my current house and her parents place in Paradise. 

I was discussing fishing spots with her as I walked around the property, unrolling an extremely long garden hose. There were various things that were wrong with the house, but I was more concerned with finding a nearby fishing spot. Bob was there too, but he was locked in a bathroom. We were planning to get him out, but my hose rolling and fishing spot searching seemed more pressing. 

I think Sharon was trying to tell me "just go ahead with the fishing and I'll handle getting my dad out." So I did just that. I unrolled the whole mess of hose, which was long enough to reach the creek, and was going to try my luck in the fabled fishing spot of all fishing spots.

Previously, in some other dark cave of a locale, I had gone fishing. I'd even set up a camera to capture the event. I set my pole down and waited. I did actually catch something, but it was dark, and I never discerned whether it was a fish or just a child's toy that I had reeled in. It felt like a fish and struggled like a fish, but I was still unsure.

----

Where I am today, in my awake life, is that I have just a few hours left before PG&E shuts off my power for the third time this year. Third or fourth, I don't remember, it's getting too regular now. Any time the wind blows, it's likely to go out. I have a little time to prepare, though I'm squandering it doing this. 

I also spoke to Lesa about doing some video chatting today before that occurs. I'm so revved up by our chats that I'm dying to see her face to face and hear her voice again. I'm kind of embarrassed to show my mug, though, as it's hardly the face she remembers and will most likely kill some of the fantasy that's going on in our chats.

I can't help it, though. I'm falling in love with this girl. I know, it's been what, two weeks since we renewed our conversation and a total of seven months since I made the initial contact with her on Facebook? Even I know how silly I sound. And I don't care. 

So, fuck off, silent judges, rational sensibilities, the lot of you. I'm having fun. We love who we love and enjoy what we enjoy. Better than all that gloom and doom, right? There's always time for that once I screw things up and wind up driving her away. 

But as things stand right now, I'm puppy dog crush, madly engaged in a scintillating and enthralling conversation that would make any teenager proud. It's making me proud and quite excited to be who I am right now, even though I wish that it were a younger version.

I'd better get on with my day. Lots to do before 2 pm.

I persist

 

I remain involved in this living business, so here I am to document the fringes of my existence. I dreamed some disjointed snapshots which are already fading in the light, but here goes. I was in a car, discussing disability with someone, Lesa I imagine, an old flame from my high school years, with whom I've recently reconnected. More on this later.

Aaah! It's all pouring through my brain and not much is getting caught in the sieve. So, if it comes back, I'll bring it into my narrative, but for now, I guess I'll have to entertain you with the reality of my life's little details which, in themselves, seem dreamlike.

Lesa, was a girl with whom I shared some intimacy back in high school. Notice, I said intimacy, and not a more tawdry and explicit word. I am trying to be more deliberate and give the people in my life a more thoughtful description, rather than the immediately sensational glossy visual. 

Back in high school, though, I was a slut of ginormous proportions. No fancying that up. Lesa and I became involved during the height of my hormonally fueled social popularity. I met her through my friend and bandmate Ricky. She was his brother Danny's girlfriend. It became a bit messy, as we were all friends.

Our initial attraction was magnetic and I quickly fell prey to her hypnotic allure. She was a mixed race African European hybrid and she exuded sexuality. She had a sort of sixties voodoo child wild vibe but was also very demure, which made her that much more enticing. What was behind those come hither glances and coy smiles? 

The invitation was subtle and yet, to my pheromone enhanced perception, it was a neon sign that said "Open" and "Welcome, come on in!" So, I did. 

I made no secret of our attraction, then as now. It got me into trouble at the time, though, because Danny was the jealous type. I was not to be dissuaded, though, and continued to see her off and on, until the circumstances of my wayward teenage life made us drift apart.

Well, we've been messaging on Facebook recently like a couple of teenagers. We have become each other's long-distance guilty obsessions. Emojis and long, rambling declarations of feelings are flowing back and forth, and I'm in my usual over the top effusive form.  The difference is that she seems to be reciprocating my sentiments. I'm feeling enamored of this girl with whom I only share an internet relationship and a memory of a brief but intense physical relationship that happened over thirty years ago.

Ok, a small snapshot from my dream made itself pop up just now. I was walking along a path near the top of a very nicely manicured hillside estate. It appeared that a party or memorial of some kind was in full swing. I navigated around groups of people and made my way down to the town below. 

I passed through a coffee shop where I saw a young lady, a server. who was in tears. I presumed that it was related to the event going on up on the hill. I approached her, as she seemed in obvious need of a comforting hug.

"God bless the dream world," I thought in my dream as I drew up to her and held her close to comfort her. She responded favorably by kissing my cheek as she told me of the beloved person for whom the event was planned. I lingered in this embrace comfortably and drew my own rejuvenating solace from it, though it had nothing to do with the person everyone else was grieving. I was just taking advantage of the moment to feel some human warmth.

Somewhere nearby was a hotel room that I was checked into. Apparently, I was engaged in some criminal theft activities involving stolen computer hard drives. I would break into other rooms in the hotel and take apart peoples desktop computers, leaving a big mess of disassembled parts for the police to find. 

There was another individual with whom I was in cahoots. I'm not sure what the nature of our business was, just that I'd steal the drives and deliver them to this guy, and we were trying to evade the authorities, who seemed to be getting closer to catch up with us. I remember telling the guy about how the dots were all there for them to connect and that the jig was almost up.

I never did get caught, though. The last thing I remember was walking around the small town and finding the storefront of my criminal associate. It was a bookstore, quite antiquated and in seeming disuse. It had a closed sign when I walked by it during normal business hours. I wandered around the little mall that it shared with the coffee shop where I'd had my encounter with the grieving barista earlier. 

That's about it. Now, I'm awake and watching my Facebook messenger for the telltale little dots which indicate that Lesa is typing something. I am indeed getting severely addicted to these communiques, eagerly anticipating the little red notification with the Pavlovian "ding" sound stimulating me to arousal.

I don't feel guilty about my guilty pleasure, though. Just pleasure and a little wistful longing. Damn 500 mile distance. I'd jump in my car this minute and be in her arms by now if this were a dream.

If I'm not on here blabbing

I must be somewhere else running my mouth. Sorry if I'm not an integrated journaler. I have correspondences and things that I invest my hard sweated brain activity in, which I don't have time or compulsion to recap for this venue. Catch it on a re-run sometime. 

Perhaps I'll have a bit of downtime when I've worn out my other audience. That usually happens after a few of my lengthy, overly personal letters that I've written to people who really were only requesting the time of day.

I can say this: "Hope is a dangerous drug in the mind of a depressed person." A little bit will get you high. Too much and you'll touch the sun and get burned then come crashing down never to fly again. 

Sleep is still my most favorite pastime, though I'm not remembering much of what I dream lately. Tonight's another night. I'm putting in my request now. Please, oh, please, oh, please! Sharon, my guru, my guide--send me a sweet dream. Give my restless mind some peace. Or at least a direction to travel where it might be found.

In Jesus name, Amen.

COME ON!
(please?)

Creeps (exerpt from Facebook reply on 4-3-19)

What is it that makes one person’s endeared loved one another's creep? What, in particular is that defining quality? Is there some visually observable look a person has about them that makes them fall into the creep category? Is it more subtle even than that? A hug, a touch, a look, a word spoken; all are OK, and they are all not OK, depending on context and reciprocity. I like you, you like me—OK. I like you, you don’t like me—I’m a creep.

But this is an oversimplification. Surely, there is a sliding scale of creepiness, and one size doesn’t fit all. Human beings are all wired up differently. We have huggers and non-huggers, people who bottle up their feelings and those that effuse emotion to anyone in close proximity. Some people click and connect with certain people, and others, not so much. That a consensus should be expected, when all these different types of people exist, is unrealistic.

I don’t think creeps set out to be creeps. I think they ultimately just want to feel loved and to give love and may not be aware that their manner of achieving this is not appreciated. That may be too generous, because certainly there are sociopaths and sexual predators seeking self-gratification at all costs. But this is a whole different level of misbehavior with generally accepted guilt to be impugned. These are criminals, not just creeps.

I like to pet my cats. Not once have they accused me of being a creep. But there are probably instances where they are just not “feelin’ it.” Are they being doormats and victims because they let me pet them anyway? Should they extend their claws and let me know I have crossed the line? #neverthebelly #enoughwiththepatsonthebutt They sense that my intentions are sincere and put up with my shit, in part because I feed them, but mainly because I’m their endeared person, and they know I’m showing them affection in my weird, human way.

Creeps gonna creep. They may know they are creeps or maybe not. There are probably a lot of people who would be hurt to know that they come off creepy to people. Creeps are people, too, after all. They are just wired differently from the people who find them creepy. Are we going to send everyone who has ever put out an unappreciated vibe to Creep Island?

“How did you get put here, Grandpa?”

“I stared too long at this young lady at the grocery store. I was actually looking at the pickles on the shelf next to her, trying to read the labels, but no matter. It creeped her out.”

Despite my lighthearted approach, I am seriously interested in this topic for its larger societal implications. And for me, in particular, because I find myself avoiding interaction with people, fearing I will set off someone’s creep radar. Maybe I just have a creepy face, I dunno. The fact that I just spent an hour obsessively typing out an unsolicited diatribe on a friend’s post, I myself find a little creepy.

Maybe I should learn Morse code

 

My LED has been blinking occasionally these days at 7:44 am. If I'm going to interpret this as Sharon trying to talk to me, I need to figure out what language LEDs speak. To my knowledge, she never knew Morse code when she was alive, but perhaps she picked it up in the afterlife. Maybe there's a class you can take over there. Or spirits learn it from each other as they try to help one another hone their skills for getting messages over from the other side.

I am so dad blasted stuck in my inertia that I couldn't decide whether to shave my head or cook some chili yesterday. I know I have to do something in a day, to fill the time between TV meals. So I made a short list of six items and rolled the dice. I left music off the list. Too sedentary.

1 go for a bike ride
2 go fishing
3 cook something
4 clean something
5 fix something
6 shave my head

I rolled a six, so that was that. Easy enough, but hardly enough to build a whole day around, seeing as how I was already mostly bald. I'll have to add another item to the list and try again today. I rolled a three. Cook something it is. Good, I wasn't looking forward to yardwork.

I have my depression group to go to today anyway. Not that it's helping me at all, it's just something to do for an hour that gets me out of the house. I guess it could count for socialization, plopping my depressed ass in a chair in a room with other people in it. But if we're all just depressed and going week after week to sit with each other and listen to a guy read from a printout, I don't call that a cure or treatment, just moderated commiseration. I gotta get started on something or I'll just lounge around till it's time to go.

We're having another power shutoff event this week starting on Wednesday morning and lasting until they see fit to turn it back on. More fire weather. I should be preparing an evacuation kit and getting the generator ready? Is that what you're trying to tell me, dear?

What is this thing?

 

What is this thing called depression? Or what is this thing called? Depression? Not sure which way I want to go with this. When you feel as if nothing is important, nothing really matters--but not in a take things as they come, let it roll off your back kind of way--more in a "nothing is really worth the time or energy, nothing sounds fun, why bother" kind of way, that's a hint you may be depressed. 

Sometimes it's just a feeling of overwhelm, like you are trying to keep up with all the responsibilities of the universe, but, in fact, it's just you trying to make dinner. Or take a shower. Or feed the dog. But it's everything, it's life, it's next week, it's what do I do between breakfast and mid-afternoon? It's the panic of "Oh my god, I'm still alive and I don't know why." It's letting things pile up to the point of irreversibility.

It's all that and then the stories. The stories about you and the stories about the world.

"Nobody loves me."
"Nobody gets me."
"I'm truly alone in this world."
"This life godawful sucks."

If I could distill it all into a dropper jar and put it away in the medicine cabinet to be used for special occasions, I would. Like in the event that life was ever just so damned over-the-top happy that I needed to experience a little drop of anguish or melancholy. 

I wouldn't drink the stuff or make it my daily routine. It would only be for use on a special reminder day. A "let's all take a moment and experience one micro-dose of what suffering must be like and then quickly take the antidote and get on with our happy ass lives" kind of a day.

But it's not that way. I live under the spell of a dark presence. It has invaded my consciousness and plays me like a sad cello. Some may see beauty in pain, but I just see pain. And misery. Not much else. It doesn't help to know that this is a disease or a condition. That doesn't make me feel special or privileged, just cursed. Sharon got MS, I got depression.

Making it my own responsibility, as in, "You're only depressed because you let yourself be," only adds a layer of guilt to the equation. Not only am I a sullen sulky brat, but it's my own fault.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sentence structure, punctuation and content. Blah, blah, blah. Who gives a damn?

I could talk about a lot of things other than this elephant that is stepping on my chest, but he's a real conversation killer. Like, for instance, I lost one friend in the last week, but gained three. 

One was a person I worked with in the 90s. He looked me up out of the blue. Cool. 

Another was a friend I worked with in the 2000's. I saw that he and his wife had recently split up so I reached out to him on Facebook to see if I could be of any help. Turns out he's dealing with it very maturely already, but hey, us depressed people gotta try to support one another. 

And lastly, my brother Mike, to whom I sent a friend request 10 years ago or so, finally responded by accepting it.

We have a lot to talk about, Mike and I, but that may not ever happen. I can't fathom what the feud is between him and my mom and am certain that I won't be able to convince him that I understand where he is coming from. I'd like to understand, though.  

I wish I could help him and my mom patch things up. Maybe that's a worthwhile thing to attempt, I don't know. What could it hurt? He's already alienated himself from the whole family. 

Maybe accepting my friend request was the beginning of a change of heart for him. Or maybe it was a sinister plot to piggyback on my friends list, like the hacker that sent out requests from my friend's mom to all of her son's friends: pure evil.

Meanwhile, I tell myself this little thing or that is worth doing, but I don't really believe it. Nothing lasts, so why bother building something, or fixing or maintaining it? Things just get messy again, why clean them? So I can enjoy them for a time? What if I'm not even doing that? Enjoying them at all? 

Pretty much everything seems like it's just a distraction to get me from one moment to the next. What I really crave is the escape of sleep. To be in a different world, any world but this one, where I'm me, and my life is what it is.

Then there are those sudden moments when I panic and fear death. Not so much death but the whole process of dying, which I can feel has begun some time ago. It is only being marked and witnessed by me as it happens inevitably, inexorably and at an excruciatingly persistent pace. 

May as well just play dice with myself in protest of this torturous ennui. Pass the time going sailing like in "On the Beach," where death by a cloud of post nuclear fallout was an imminent certainty. 

Isn't that what's supposed to make life take on more meaning? Its impermanence? The get it while it's hot, enjoy the rose before its blossom fades,"live for today, because tomorrow isn't promised" philosophy of living?

I'm the one who sees the point at which the Monopoly game is unwinnable and resents the fuck out of the rest of the game, which has to be played out in a tediously gracious manner or else you'll be a poor sport. I've been on both sides of that, winning and losing, but neither seems fun once the outcome is certain. You just want to call it, and call it a day. 

That's me. On the Titanic, playing a losing game of Monopoly with myself, sailing into a radioactive death cloud. What will I die of first? Drowning? Hypothermia? Radiation sickness? Or boredom?

If we don't hang together, we shall all hang separately

 

I don't know the origin of that quote, but I dreamed someone was telling me that. That's the only takeaway from last night's nocturnal entertainment. The rest eludes me.

In other news, my little LED is back on. I don't know if that's a good sign or an omen or what. I'd love to have the ability to interpret its comings and goings, which can seem random, but I'm sure are connected to something. Even if it is temperature related and the mindless electrons are simply responding to the heating and cooling of the environment, that's a connection. 

I think it's more. I get excited when it comes on, like, "What are you trying to tell me, Sharon? Is it a warning? Is Timmy stuck down a well? Do I need to get a 3/4 inch drill bit and a winch to help free him? What is it?"

I will await further instructions, but for now, "Hi, Boopie!"

Daniel is my (friend's) Brother

                                                                Daniel

I can't recall much from my dreams last night, except this: I was somehow roommates with Danny, the big brother of my high school punk bandmate, Rick Johnson. We both had a common interest in a sweet girl named Lesa, with whom I've recently reconnected on Facebook. 

Actually, I've reconnected with all of them on Facebook, first Rick then Lesa and finally, Danny. Rick's not too active, but Danny often shares music or movie recommendations that I've found interesting. I tend to like the stuff he shares and the overall tenor of his commentaries.

I also liked his girlfriend, Lesa, back in high school, a time when my hormones exceeded my self-control or respect for boundaries. We had a brief but intense mini-relationship, but, alas, I proved to be a flighty and fair weather lover, ever moving, ever scouting for greener pastures. I remember convincing her to stay with Danny, with whom she'd had a long history, and who was in love with her and severely hung up on her at the time. 

I think I was "dating" her around the time I met Ilene, my high school sweetheart and one of the great loves of my life. If I'm honest, though, they've all been great loves. They all moved me in some way and made an indelible mark on my memory, which never fades. I should probably write a book just on that subject, but under a pseudonym and with all the names swapped out just for double safety.

No matter, I'm imploding my social life right now, just by continuing to use real names, events and feelings in this journal. Lately, I've been exchanging kind words and sentiments with Lesa, as she has showed support for me over my recent de-friending by this other person. And here I am blabbing about it to my journal, as if I learned nothing from last week. 

I can't help it. Like Ralph Cramden said, "I got a BIG mouth." 

I must have a big heart or ego as well (I can't decide which) to have "feelings" for so many of the women in my life. And by women in my life, I mean females who are my friends primarily on Facebook, most of whom I will probably never see in my lifetime.

Poly-amorous is a term that keeps coming up, describing a person who is capable loving more than one person. I'm not sure that I am even capable of truly loving even one person, really. But the sphere of my hormonal infatuation can extend to all women, everywhere in the known universe. 

So, be on the lookout for the tell-tale signs from me. Effusive language, constant obsessive attention, sayin' nice stuff about ya when it ain't even called fer--these are the red flags that I might be developing feelings for you.

I respect all boundaries, but when there are no fences or clearly defined borders, I tend to wander into places I don't belong. Then someone has to set the dogs on me or get out their shotgun to send me packing. Or possibly they could just mention, "Uh, you've stepped onto my land, you should turn around and head thataway." And if I'm just passing through admiring the scenery and making pleasant conversation with the livestock, have I really committed a crime? 

I'm not sure if there's a clear distinction between coveting another man's wife (which sounds so patriarchal and proprietary) or just having a normal reaction to beauty or a great personality in another human being. 

As I say frequently, "Sue me." Or at least put up a sign like they have for Jehova's Witnesses that says, "No Jehova's Witnesses," or in my case, "Andrew, move on. Don't even think about it, baldy."

So, yeah, apparently even in my damaged state, I can still feel things. Inappropriate, unfulfillable longings or just great admiration or some mixture of the two. From warm-fuzzies to tingly things, I feel them. I get some kind of emotional charge out of any kind of positive attention. 

That's why I struggle so hard to maintain a positive image on Facebook. My friends are all nice to me. If they knew of some of the dreams I've had, in which they've starred, perhaps that would change. 

Or if the inner mechanism of my thoughts were exposed, revealing all my crushes, puppy loves, infatuations and fantasies--I shudder to think of it. Am I talking out loud again? Damn, I gotta install a noise gate. Inside thoughts in, outside thoughts out.

So, in the dream, Danny and I were roommates. He was in his room, upset with me for some reason. The reason was, I believe, that I was able to cause radio frequency interference with my CB and speak over his stereo like an intercom. This would interrupt his music listening, as he would hear my voice booming through his speakers at random intervals. 

It didn't help that I was aware of this and used it to fuck with him by whispering suggestive or incendiary things into my microphone at all hours. Yeah, I can be a real prick, even in my dreams. But I felt bad and was seeking to remediate things by knocking on his door. 

"Aww, come on Danny! You know I'm your friend. I was just kidding around. Don't be mad. Let's talk about it," I pleaded. 

We were starting to have a conversation about my infractions going all the way back to high school, but I eventually woke up before we could resolve anything.

I know, as we are all friends on Facebook now, that anything I say to Lesa can be seen by him. They aren't in a relationship right now, but have remained close friends. And here I come with my microphone blaring back into his consciousness, making sweet talk to "his girl." 

I'm sorry, Danny. Maybe we can have an enlightened conversation about my foibles. I'd hate to lose another friend because I've overstepped again.

Loma Rica neighbors are the best (Facebook re-post)

 

 

My Loma Rica neighbors are the best. A couple days ago, while out for my evening walk, I spied a lady walking her dog down my street. She waved to me and then paused so that I could catch up. 

 

We struck up a conversation, and it turns out that she and her husband live around the corner from me. They bought their house at approximately the same time Sharon and I bought ours. She walked me to my gate, where we formally introduced ourselves and then parted ways.

The next day while I was out walking, I passed her house and once again she waved at me. "Hi, Andrew!" she yelled, competing with her four barking dogs. 

 

"Hi, Lisa," I responded when she'd gotten a bit closer and quieted the dogs. We talked for about 20 minutes about everything under the sun.

When we hit on the topic of the recent power outages, she explained that they were going solar with battery backup, and asked me how I was prepared. I told her I had some candles and an oil lamp and some battery operated radios. That's when she offered me (someone she'd met a total of 24 hours ago) that if I ever needed anything during the outages, like to cook some food or take a shower, that I should just come over.

As if that wasn't already enough, she then mentions that she has a spare generator that they'd recently upgraded from but still ran perfectly, and how would I like for them to give it to me? For free. 

 

I told her that I'd like that very much and said thank you so many times that my tongue got rubbery. She said she'd drop it off at my house this weekend. I said I'd leave the gate open and thanked her a bunch more times.

This morning I went out for a little walk and returned to see a truck parked in my driveway, the generator already off loaded in front of my garage and her standing there waving and smiling. She gave me a demo and showed me that it was indeed running perfectly. It was even full of gas. I told her I must have hit the lottery for great neighbors when I met her.

She just smiled and said, "You know us Loma Rica people, always looking out for each other."

I kinda knew it already, but man, do I ever know it now.

Monkeys on Motorbikes

 

Not really sure what my dream was about last night. I'm usually left with the last image and no storyline. In this case it was that my next door neighbor had a team of monkeys on motorcycles who were charged with doing the landscaping on his property. Being that we have a shared access gate which gets left open for his horses to wander over and graze, the monkeys would occasionally come over to my place as well. 

If you ever have the opportunity to let monkeys on motorcycles maintain your lawn, pass. These guys were nothing but trouble. Doing donuts, crashing into the woodpile, plowing into the fence and getting the motorcycle all stuck in the chain link--it was a real disaster. I wound up yelling at them and chasing them off. But I knew they'd be back before long.

It's kind of like my current backyard situation. I have a rather bad infestation of ground squirrels. They are making holes in the ground willy-nilly and pretty much making a mess of the place. 

I step out my back door and catch them eating the dog food, the guinea hen food and casually taking a moment to pose for pictures before I yell at them and send them scattering. Yelling at squirrels is about as effective of a control as putting up a picket fence to stop the tide. 

But I'm loath to kill them. They are creatures just like me, having little eyes and faces and intent on making a go of life in their world of nuts and oak trees. They can't help it that I've also decided to take up residence on the land that belonged to their ancestors before it was mine.

And I don't know how it figured into the dream of monkey motorcycle mayhem, but Richard Leon was raising Richard Aguilar's baby. I was about to ask him about it when I woke up.

911: "We don't answer these calls in the apocalypse."

 

God, I hope this isn't the start of another series of prescient fire dreams. I've had a couple of fire dreams in the last year, but here's another one.

I was living in a bit of an odd location, which was somehow still my current address, only a slightly different configuration, such as, it was a partial duplex or multi-unit dwelling. 

At some point I was down in a garage/basement/laundry room and I noticed a big, bright-eyed fat puppy. He was your typically exuberant rolley-polley little chubby baby type. I had a moment of "awww.." and I was about to chide him lovingly for being where he shouldn't. 

But before I could give him my full attention, I spied another. Then another. And another. All in all around six not identical, very small, very cute dogs. They were mostly puppies, but there may have been a teacup griffon or yorkie thrown in. Such a motley crew. They all descended upon me, zombie-like, intent on licking my face.

There was only one thing to do. I lay down on the floor and prepared for total immersion cuteness. I lay there for a moment or two just enjoying my wriggling fur blanket of tongues, tails and panting little faces. Eventually, I decided I'd better get up and find out where the breach was. How did I wind up with a laundry room full of someone else's pups? 

 

I went upstairs and found that my next door neighbor, a bit of an elderly eccentric slob, had left her balcony door ajar. The pups had wandered out, probably seeking a less filthy dwelling. She gazed out at me from her clutter, clutching one lonely little yorkie, who appeared too old to make the escape, but was looking longingly at me.

"You appear to have lost a few," I said. I wasn't very hopeful and backed away from the mess. I made a mental note to deal with the puppies later.

Meanwhile, back in my dwelling, I was eating a sandwich, or trying to, with some company that I had over. She was a somewhat more with it older lady who reminded me of the grandmother on Young Sheldon. I think she had brought me the sandwich. 

We were eating at the counter when suddenly, out of the back window, someone noticed a spot of orange on the hill.

"Did that just happen?" I demanded, my voice rising shrilly in alarm.

"I think it was lightning," my guest replied.

I watched as clouds gathered around the mountain ominously. The fire grew exponentially in seconds. The next thing I knew there were little spot fires all over the hill. I ran to the phone.

"Has anyone called 911?" I was in full panic mode, unable to control my shrieking. 

My lady guest seemed unconcerned as she continued to eat her sandwich. I was torn between really wanting to eat mine and being really, really freaked out at the impending firestorm. I took a few more bites and picked up the phone. 

The phone was a push button dial phone and all of the other numbers had been taped over except for 911. I struggled to dial the number, my fingers all jittery from adrenaline.

"We're hiding," a voice answered, after a long period of silence.

"Excuse me?" I asked, incredulous at the unprofessional response. "Is this 911? I'm trying to report a fire at 3624 Stonehedge," I said, getting the numbers all wrong. I corrected myself and gave him the right address. "Hasn't anyone reported it yet? This is looking bad, and we need to get out of here!" I bellowed into the phone.

"We don't answer these calls in the apocalypse," was the sense I got from his casual tone. "I don't know, maybe they did, maybe they didn't. You best just get going. We won't be able to do anything about this one."

As he spoke these words, I saw fire spotting directly in back of the house and creeping around the sides, as well. As much as I wanted to finish my sandwich, I got the sense that if I took one more bite, I might not make it out alive. It was time to run to the car and leave everything behind. 

I had a sense that I'd be forced to make another choice like before, when I had to leave Sharon as a fire was enveloping our property. I think it was the puppies this time, and not Sharon, but her name did come up, so she may have been in the dream, just out of the picture.

I never got to finalize my evacuation plans or even make it out the door. I awoke in a bit of an elevated state of anxiety and was thus saved from the rest of the fire apocalypse dream.

 

My new abnormal normal

 

I went for my walk today, but I did something different. You guessed it. I walked a different direction down Loma Rica Rd. And you'd be guessing correctly again if you sussed my motivation. I was gonna walk by my back side neighbor's house to say hi. 

I didn't know for certain, but I suspected it to be a house which was on the market at the same time Sharon and I bought our place. As I was approaching the house, I could hear her calling to her dogs from the back yard. She came around to the front just as I was passing her house.

"Hi, Andrew," she called cheerfully, waving to me.

I stopped and waved back as her dogs all charged to the fence in a barking frenzy. She made her way up to the fence, chiding her dogs as I quietly told them, "Good dogs" for being such diligent protectors. 

We proceeded to have a nice long conversation on a range of topics from the fire to horses, bike riding, fishing, you name it. I did find out she is married. This didn't seem to be an impediment to her being a friendly, enthusiastic person who somehow found me interesting enough to waste 20 minutes shooting the breeze with.

She mentioned that they were getting solar installed with a backup battery for the next time PG&E decided to shut off the power. I said I envied them, as all I had were some candles and an oil lamp. 

She said they had 2 generators and wound up offering to give me one that they had laying around, since they'd upgraded to a newer model. It had one issue, but she felt it was something simple that could be easily repaired. 

She even said she'd deliver it to my house this weekend sometime. I couldn't thank her enough. I was and am still amazed at the ease with which this person found their way into my life. From never having met to "here's a free generator" in 24 hours.

I can't help thinking I'm going to screw this up somehow. I'll have to meet her husband, as it is improper to be doing so much socializing with someone's wife without so much as a nod to their other half. Who knows, maybe we'll have some common interests, too. So, despite my setback with _______ de-friending me on Facebook, my social life has made some progress.

Well, that was about the worst case reaction

 

I guess that's what happens when you dream about someone and then blog about it and then tell them about it. So, I guess that is a hard lesson I've learned about how people respond to me being "transparent." 

People would like to think of themselves as open, but if you get a little too personal, then boom--creeped the fuck out. Hey, I guess I should keep my dreams to myself? Well, I may offend more people in the future, but I'm gonna say---uh, no.

For one thing, no one ever reads this blog. I mean, they could, but they don't. My counter says that possibly two to three people, tops, ever do. And what difference does it make if a guy tells his story, dreams, thoughts and such to the empty ether? 

I'm sorry, _______. I thought you were more open-minded. Maybe I did cross a line for you. I'm sorry you decided to de-friend me over it. That is going to be my loss, but yours, too. I am kind of glad you made the harsh decision, though. I was spending too much of my already diminishing life's energy obsessing over someone else's life.

But I feel badly because now I'm going to be anathema and ill-thought of by you. And you can think or say whatever you want about me without the possibility of my responding. I guess I should have expected this, but it's still not a good feeling being repulsive. 

I guess we're a long way from the singularity, if everyone is going to camp out in their own separate consciousnesses and keep the walls of individuality in place. I'm still gonna go on hammering at the walls by being myself, whether or not I am perceived as creepy, offensive or impertinent. 

I apologize for the way I made you feel, though. I'm not everyone's cup of tea, I suppose.

I'm scrubbing your name from the blog. Not because I fear litigation or am embarrassed myself, but because you indicated you didn't want to be "used" in such a way. I will respect that. It may take a bit for me to track down each and every instance, but I'll get you wiped out of here, as I'm sure you are doing with me on Facebook. 

Sad, really. I guess it's in my nature to creep people out. I didn't want to do that with you, but I suppose, if I am real and open, it is bound to happen. Goodbye, my seasonal friend.

When in someone else's body

 

I dreamed that I had transferred my consciousness into the body of my new friend, _______. Presumably, this was arranged so that I could feel how it was for her to fall in love with the guy who she'd been raving about. 

I had no idea where my body was during this time, whether it was being inhabited by her, off on some adventure elsewhere, or if it was just sleeping somewhere waiting for me to get done with my experience. But there I was, in her apartment, actually more of a ranch style house, with Mr. Wonderful in full pursuit mode.

I was kind of excited to see how this was going to feel, from this oddly familiar female perspective. I was going to sit back and wait for him to put his moves on me. 

I could feel what she must have been feeling as he talked the talk and made the gestures which I felt myself (her body) responding to. I still had my own consciousness intact making clinical judgements about his technique, etc. 

At some point I told him what the deal was: "_______'s not here. We've swapped bodies. I'm her friend and I'm here to evaluate you."

"And she's ok with it?" He seemed not too taken aback.

"Yes, it was her idea," I lied. I think it was my idea, but I'm not sure really. It was agreed upon though.

So, he proceeded to act as natural as could be while we went on with our evening. I was a little frightened that he might wind up...well, I had no I idea what he was going to do to me or how I'd react. I thought to myself, just go along with it and see how it feels. 

He picked up my Fender guitar, which kind of irked me, but I let it slide. I just didn't want him dinging it up, but he looked like he was being careful enough. 

In a tit for tat move, I picked up his guitar, a Flying V style that had an unfinished and slightly caveman look to it. It played wonderfully, though neither of us was using amplification so I can't say for sure how it sounded. It felt like it should sound great.

That was about it. Two guys, one of whom was inhabiting his female friend's body, hanging out waiting for _______ to come back and take over or not. I had the feeling that if she didn't get back soon, he was gonna go for it, regardless. 

It wasn't set in stone what anybody was supposed to do, so, in the meantime, he was trying to impress me (or her) with his guitar playing, which I couldn't really hear.

It was a weird sensation, feeling things from that perspective, but still being able to analyze it from my own sense of self. The anticipation, the foreign, yet somewhat familiar hormones coursing through my (her) body. I woke up, as usual, before anything actually consummated. Damn, and I was almost kinda looking forward to getting some.

All right, Freud, how fucked up am I? Or is this just a cigar.

Is this what normal feels like?

 

Ok, so, this is not much really to brag about, but I was out walking this evening. Yes.... and? And as I was about to turn the corner onto my street I spied a woman walking a dog, headed in the direction I was going. She waved to me and I waved back. Eventually, she stopped for a minute and I caught up with her. I said hi, she said hi and pretty soon we were having a conversation about bats, dogs, squirrels and other neighborly stuff. She said she lived on Loma Rica Rd., my back side neighbor, as she called it.

She told me she was a teacher who usually worked late, but was going to make a practice out of walking her dogs in the evening. The one she was walking this evening was a young German shepherd with huge ears and looked to already be the size of a small pony. We walked together for most of the length of the street until we reached my house where we said our goodbyes. 

I introduced myself, "This is me. I'm Andrew. " She said her name was Lisa. She even asked me my name twice, like she intended to remember it.

So, what I'm congratulating myself about was that I could carry on a conversation with a woman whom I had just met, and it felt natural. I didn't have the awkward, jittery feeling I always get, as if I'm expected to perform in some capacity. We were just two people out on our walks, deciding to sync up for minute and exchange pleasantries. 

And for whatever reason I didn't come off as a weirdo or a creep, just a normal guy out for a walk in the evening. If anything she was the weirdo, talking about her love of bats. But I can't fault her for being a little batty. Bats are helpful creatures, and we live in the country, so you get familiar with your beneficial critters.

That's it. That's my story. I could give some credit to my recent chats with _______ for maybe breaking me out of my isolation and interacting with another person. But that's the internet, and I'm usually more confident in a writing capacity than I am speaking to women in person. 

Anyway, yay me. Talking to people and stuff. I'm guessing she's probably married, and that's ok. I'm not looking to start something. It just felt good to be acknowledged and to have an interaction that didn't feel forced or weird. It felt normal, which actually feels weird to me, but in a good way.

Trying to convince someone of unwanted dentistry

 

Trying to convince someone of something they are resistant to is like trying to melt ice by talking to it. Maybe someday, with enough hot air, it will happen. I feel like I spent the last two days at the dentist. Only, I was the dentist and the person I was trying to pull teeth from was someone with my own level of stubborn resistance to having their teeth pulled.

"The tooth is obviously bad," I say. "It's causing you pain," I say. 

"There's no future with that tooth. So, how about it? Let's just get that tooth out, eh? It'll be over before you know it, then you can get on with your other options. Gold tooth? Implant? That pirate look is cool, sure. Or you'll always have a place for your straw," I'm talking to myself at this point, trying to convince myself of taking some kind of actual dental action.

"Noooo, but I love it. It's my Toothy Tooth. We had some good moments together, Toothy and I. You don't know him like I do. There'll never be another tooth like Toothy. What if, you know, down the road, Toothy heals up?"

No point in arguing. Toothy might make another fine tooth someday. In a gazillion years, when the next big bang rescrambles all the molecules in the universe and these Toothy molecules fuse together, reincarnated into a new mouth. But not in this lifetime. 

No matter, in the mean time, Toothy will extract himself. Just fall right out. Oh, well, we're all falling apart anyway. The point is, I'm a lousy dentist and a lousy advice giver. Don't listen to someone who doesn't even take their own advice.

--the next day, after a little reflection--

So how come I'm talking in dental analogies instead of just telling my story straight up? Good question. I guess because I am too lazy to go into the background of what is going on in my personal life (or lack thereof). I'll say this much: I've made a new friend. 

We've been doing a fair amount of chatting on Facebook. It mostly revolves around her current love life (or lack thereof). I find myself in the awkward position of confidante and Dear Abby advice giver. Actually, I'm just digging having a person to talk to, a beautiful female at that, possessing a beautiful mind as well.

So, although she's 21 years my junior, or possibly because of that fact, I find myself extremely interested in the fascinating details of her life and the inner working of her mind that she is sharing with me. If only for pure science, it is still a completely engrossing business. 

In all my years, I've never had a female--woman, girl or grandmother--that was so quick to open up and so easy to talk to. Or should I say, listen to, it's been mostly about her and her not so much of a hope to be boyfriend. No matter, because hearing about someone living their life puts my focus on something other than my own sorry state of affairs.

Unfortunately, I found that I'm not so good at dispensing impartial advice. I get caught up in the drama, take sides and fail to view things dispassionately. So, my sagely advice becomes skewed by my own inconsistencies and emotional investment. Good thing I'm not a therapist, I'd be fired by now. You can't fall in love with your patients. 

I tend to fall in love with any girl who will give me the time of day. Maybe that's why more of them don't talk to me. They see this a mile away. Whoa, emotionally needy person here. Potential glommer. Steer clear. I won't say they are wrong in every case, though I'd like to think I'm capable of having a female friend who I'm not secretly (or overtly) in love with.

Or not. Fuck it, right? I can love as many people as I want in whatever capacity I'm able to and that's my business. Whether someone ever reciprocates is another matter. I've all but declared myself dead and buried to the idea of ever having a real relationship. So, this business with my new friend is just a matter of seeing what circuits still operate in my depleted, damaged state. 

For my loyal readership, hearken back to the springtime fiasco with Dream Girl. I've made a fool of myself before and am still alive to tell about it. I'm not entertaining hope now, just as I didn't in the case of Dream Girl. I'm just allowing feelings to wash through me, enjoying a moment or two of self-delusion in my distraction from my boring, lonely existence.

(Hi, _______, if you're reading this. Hope I didn't offend you too much with my messed up interpretation of the dentistry metaphor.)

I really gotta get all my stories together in one place, because I said a whole bunch of stuff on Facebook which needs to be incorporated in order for this dumb blog or journal, whatever it is, to paint a true picture. Right now my life is compartmentalized, simply because I don't have the energy to reiterate things that I've said to people in emails or on Facebook. 

But then, there's also the "who really gives a fuck about you and your stupid story" aspect that I'm dealing with. Why bother to document a life as monotonous and lonely as this? I suppose that's why I'm finding myself so engaged in the whole conversation I've been having with _______. It is a different dynamic than I am used to and makes me feel somewhat alive again.

But due to my failure as an advice giver, perhaps I've overstayed my welcome and that connection, however brief, will wink out, too. Me, the eternal pessimist, predicting the future again.