Spotfires, Greg Miller's Fire Brigade, The Pit of Pastel Hell and I help Vivianne with a TV antenna

It started with the usual fire dream business. I was on high alert since spot fires had been reported in the area. I looked out along a golden ridge of tall, dry grass waving in the breeze, just waiting for the first sign of a spark. 

Suddenly, there it was, about the size of a car and spreading rapidly. I spied it with binoculars, I think. Greg Miller and I were going to leap into action and go after it in some sort of firefighter capacity. Yellow vests were donned, and I jumped on my motorbike. But after some clumsy maneuvering, I decided to just jump in the truck with Greg. I say Greg Miller because that was the sense of who it was, though it looked like a young Roger Daltry. 

My travels with Greg landed me in a different location, somewhere near Chico, with notes of Lake Isabella, kind of a potpourri of past haunts of mine. I was there to help Vivianne Van Asperin fix a TV antenna. I took down the old one using a crescent wrench, which I promptly misplaced, while discussing the finer points of the new HD antennas with Vivianne. She had her opinion about them, and I had my own set of facts, which I shared with her, regarding range, dB amplification etc. 

It went ok, though I don't remember actually finishing the job. I wound up never finding my exact crescent wrench, but no matter, there were plenty of similar ones available.

Prior to the fire watch, I had been perusing a path around an excavation. The digging was hidden by a six foot tall wood fence, designed to keep people from peering in, and falling in, too, I suppose. I was  continuing the walk around, when I came to the entrance of the fenced-in portion. I found it to be an easily accessible, almost touristy area, the kind of place where people take selfies overlooking the giant spectacle. 

It was grand indeed. A very deep, pit which had, at its bottom, a beautifully painted hellscape. It was reminiscent of the painterly landscaping technique used in Robin Williams' "What Dreams May Come." The colors were a gentle kaleidoscope of pastel southwest hues, but extra bright, like those neon paint pens you can buy for arts and crafts. 

I decided that I needed to get closer and take a selfie, falling for the allure of the gently sloping funnel shaped brick walking area at the top of the giant hole. Surely it was paved this way to encourage this sort of thing. 

Like a honey trap, I was lured in and immediately found I had slid irretrievably partway down the funnel. I had misjudged the pitch of those pleasantly placed red bricks. Though I didn't fall all the way down, there was a sense that I had fallen past the point where I could extricate myself. 

I didn't mind, though. Since I was there, I figured I may as well get that selfie. I snapped a bunch of pictures of the work in progress at the bottom of the chasm and felt satisfied enough with myself to just relax, as if I'd planned a picnic at just that spot. 

 

I awoke soon thereafter to my semi-swollen right eyelid and my giant weed harvest, both of which have been dominating my life of late. It is Saturday, however, and I have a guitar that must be played, coffee and cannabis to be dutifully consumed and breakfast to be made and lingered over whilst doing items one and two. Better get to it.