Sharon's back, got an iPhone and Hannelore's body was swapped out at the cemetery

 

In last night's episode, Sharon was back and about to start school for the fall. It was a stressful time, getting her ready for this new experience. We were at a different part of her disabled journey, the part where she was just learning some of her limitations. Of course, I was blessed with 20/20 hindsight from my real life experience with her. Surprisingly, this didn't make me fatalistic or futilistic about it, but rather helpful. I was glad to be given another chance to be patient and caring. 

I had an iPhone, which indicated to me that I had been down the timeline a bit, since in real life I never had one while she was alive. I was there, trying to get her car winterized and teach her the basics of Iphone use. She was having a bit of a time with the text being too small, as I knew she would. I tried to show her the pinch zoom feature, but she wasn't finding it all that easy to navigate the tiny menus. 

Meanwhile, we were at a memorial for her mom, who had passed away recently. It was more of an afterthought, since they literally had to dig up the casket for us to view. I didn't realize at the time, but it was the wrong casket. Hannelore was buried in a plain pine box, per her instructions. This was one of those fancy mahogany jobs. 

The casket was being displayed on a wall with the lid facing out. I thought, what was the purpose of a viewing if all you could see was a casket, so I endeavored to open the lid, only partly concerned that the body might come tumbling out. I managed to get the lid open, and fortunately, the body was secured with a cloth and some velcro, to prevent just such an occurrence. 

What wasn't planned for was what to do in the event that they had mistakenly brought up the wrong body. Instead of Hannelore's corpse, there were the preserved remains of a Hispanic woman in her thirties. 

I mentioned this to the funeral director, Jeffery Duncan Jones, the actor who played principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. He was just as much of a muck up in this affair as he was in the movie as he back pedaled and tried to explain that this had never, ever happened in the entire history of funerals. I found that hard to believe and told him so. 

We were in a tough predicament since he was also our landlord, and we were in a situation reminiscent of my time at 180-1/2 E 8th Ave in Chico. The dual role of landlord/funeral director also meant that he was actually Eric Hart, my landlord at the time, only being played by, you know, Ed Rooney. 

We were still trying to get straightened out just how he was going to make up this giant fiasco to us, but I think it was going to come down to getting some money taken off of our rent bill. We were still negotiating when I woke up. 

It was nice to be working with Sharon again, very natural, and I almost forgot the whole notion of her being dead. But something about the theme of the dream reminded me, and I remembered to be extra nice and careful in how I dealt with her.

Wild Arabian Horse

When people think of wild Arabian horses, they invariably conjure up the image of a majestic steed, perhaps just misunderstood, like Black Beauty, who prance about on some desert isle in slow motion, with a perfectly groomed, windblown mane such as one sees in shampoo commercials. 

That was not the case with the one I encountered last night. For one, he was white, emphasis on was. At one time. Now all besmirched with mud and blood, his fur was barely visible, but his muscles and veins stood out under his translucent skin like some anatomy model. You could literally see his blood coursing through his veins. He had a halter on, and a long lead rope was connected to it. 

He had broken free of his captivity, where he'd been tied up with a dog at the other end of the rope. This was bad news for the dog, since the horse took off at a gallop and dragged the white and brown pit bull painfully across the parking lot, bouncing like a rag doll at the end of the rope. The good news was, since he was a pit bull, he emerged undamaged, at least visibly. 

The horse came to a stop by the post office, where presumably he worked as a courier at one time. I know, who hires a wild Arabian horse to deliver the mail, right? 

I thought it was a bad idea, too, and I attempted to tell them that I'd take him somewhere far away where he couldn't drag dogs around or scare postal customers in the parking lot. They just laughed and told me to have at it. I grabbed the halter, and the horse immediately took a nip at me. 

"Hey, watch it," they said, "He bites." 

No shit, I thought, as I held on to the lead rope a little farther away from the snapping teeth. I gave it a sharp tug and yelled at him, as one would with a misbehaving child, with no cursing and a firm controlled tone which told the horse that it wasn't my first babysitting assignment. He stopped trying to bite and began to pull, becoming a 1000 lb kite at the end of a string. 

I didn't want him to repeat the dragging incident with me at the end of the tether instead of the dog, so I reeled in the slack and got him controlled with leverage. It was harder for him to fling his neck about with me grabbing the rope close to his head. It also put me back in closer proximity with his mouth, but we'd already established that there would be "no more of that" with regard to his attempts to bite me. 

That's about where we left it, with me holding on to a wild Arabian horse, as rank as they come, in the post office parking lot.

David Chanh and the parking lot revolt

There was going to be a revolution, or a car show, I'm not sure which. 

I was there at the beginning, from the first inklings of dissatisfaction with the regime, and so was David Chanh, a Honda co-worker of mine IRL. We were in the early stages of organizing, which entailed putting up our thoughts and plans on a giant board, like FBI profilers do when trying to crack a case. We were displaying pictures of our assets, which mainly consisted of cars, along with a brief description of their capabilities, such as engine size, horsepower, etc. 

All of the participants had a space on the big board, along with some kind of booth in a large parking lot, which was going to become ground zero in the contest for for power that was to come. All that was needed was some kind of announcement from us as to our intent to commence the conflagration. But it could have gone either way, a car show or an outright rebellion. 

So, that's about it. I woke up to the knocking sound of guinea hen feet on my roof and I thought that it might be someone at the door, but that was all it was. Now I'm awake and I've lost all sense of the details of the dream. Thanks a lot!

A-motherfucking-MAZE-BALLS!

I woke up with something in my eye. My right eye, to be precise. The one with the Papilloma Eyelid. Now, mind you, I am not referring to that as being the source of the irritation, as it is not. It is a discreet area to the right of it (as I see it looking out, not in a mirror). 

So to the right of my vision, off in the corner, there is this area that feels like a grain of sand or a worn dry spot that needs to be flushed, massaged or in some other way unfucked, so I can start my day. But that was hours ago and didn't happen. 

However, my left eye's area of concern, the sclera cysts in the right lower quadrant (again as viewed out of my optical), the area I refer to as "the bubbly patch," on account of it looks like a fried egg that sizzled a little too hot, now looks as if there is nothing wrong with it. Now, also, mind you that I'm looking at it through my other eye, the one with the irritation which, while not affecting the vision, could be producing some alterations of perception, nonetheless. 

Or I could just be a little stoned. Not much, since I'm a pro now and don't get overly high with a couple of tokes. But could it possibly be that my revolving wheel of symptoms has passed the torch to the other eye as my source of troubling anxiety while not allowing me to celebrate the victory of its passing? 

I AM taking notice. But it's like each time a persistent problem relinquishes its grasp, the next one is ready in the queue. So I am reacting to it appropriately, I think. A-motherfucking-MAZE-BALLS!

Flakey salt delivery company has side band

I found myself with a delivery job slinging "rock salt," which was kind of a drug slang for meth in bulk. We were getting truckloads of pallets of 40 lb. bags of meth disguised as common household water softener. It was a lucrative enough gig, despite competition. I was a driver, though since I was new, not quite familiar with big rig operation or the ins and outs of the meth business. I signed for one giant truckload of the stuff but that was as far as it got. 

Meanwhile the other members of the outfit were more concerned with the side band they had started up. It seemed to make sense to use the trucks to roadie about the the band's equipment. I was also performing roadie duties, but had my eye on a spot in the band. 

They were happy enough with my enthusiasm and were trying to make an honorary spot for me in the lineup, perhaps playing some kind of synthesizer, like a Theramin, with a proximity operated interface. You know, the kind where you place your hand near the device and it reacts by making weird sounds which you control by changing the distance of your hand in relation to the device. Nobody really likes Theramin solos, so I knew they were just placating me with this spot in the band, which was more of a hair metal band anyway. 

But I didn't care. I was happy enough, like Lucy, to just "be in the show." I was explaining to the meat handed driver from the "salt" distribution company, that I never used the stuff, but that I did tweak on coffee once in a while as a part of my musical process. 

"Yeah, sure, buddy," was the response, as all he cared about was getting my signature for his load of rocks. 

That's it. Had to wake up and pee. Got a strange ear condition going on. It's itchy and weepy right in the spot where my PowerBeats Pro headphones sit, on the inside. This has happened before and I stopped using them. I'm not sure why the reaction, but after only using them again for one time, the condition reappeared, so I'm using the last remedy that seemed to clear it up, Nystatin cream. Welcome to my kaleidoscope of symptoms and health complaints. Never a dull moment.

Exodus with the Orricks, LED ON.

I was taking a road trip, I believe it was school-related, as in traveling across country to the location of the next school I would be attending. There was a group of people I would be leaving behind, or who would all be leaving each other, to find our new prospective schools. I was going along with the Orricks, you know, my in-laws. 

Sharon wasn't among the group, although there was another girl, who I had my eye on. I had some kind of distant crush on her, or she had one on me, but it was kind of repressed. She had made some notes about predictions and prophecies that had or hadn't come true during the last semester and expressed them cryptically by making a pictogram on her right rear passenger car window.

It looked like those stick family decals, except that the writing was very tiny, so as to appear inconspicuous. I saw my name among the runes, as one of the things that didn't happen. I regretted not telling her about my crush when I had the opportunity, as it could have changed the outcome of the pictogram.

I was jogging alongside the car, with a few others in tow. Bob Orrick, Harry, Jenny Bennett and Ann Illions to name a few that I kinda remember. The family in the car joked that there was room for one more person in the back. I believe it was Ann who jumped in. I knew that I wouldn't be getting in the car, as I had a different destiny to fulfill, but I longed for inclusion. 

The car stopped for a pit stop and everyone got out. Jenny Bennett took the opportunity to roast the girl for whom I had affections. I wish I knew her name. She was a pretty girl with inappropriately poofy long wavy locks that seemed to weigh her down. They framed her lovely face but took some of the spotlight for themselves. 

"How hard is that mop going to be to navigate during sex, am I right?"  Jenny got started with the basting for the roast. It fell upon a receptive audience and there were laughs and titters from the family members. 

The girl played along, "It's true! Look at these danglers!" and pointed to her long locks that flowed out like solidified gold sunrays, succumbing to earth's gravity.

The journey resumed with me in the Orrick's group and my goldenhaired girl off to some other location. We stopped for another pitstop, this time at the market to pick up some food for the trip. 

Things were looking pretty ragged at the roadside vendor. I wound up having to choose between a couple of moldy bananas and apples that had been bitten by someone and put back on the shelf. I found one unspoiled apple and gave it to someone else in the group, and I settled for the one with the bite marks. 

They weren't satisfied with the idea that I was going to have to accept inferior fruit, but the deal was settled, since there wasn't much else to pick from.

Sometime prior to all this I had been working on cars. It was at a friends new shop that they were setting up in their garage. I had finished up on a Jeep Wrangler, doing a timing belt or some other impossibly difficult job for me. 

Apparently, it went ok, since I was now going to be working on a Honda or Acura as my next job. I was fearful, as usual, about starting a big job and pointed out that I didn't have much experience with that type of thing. The argument didn't hold up, in light of my success with the Jeep. 

I dug in and started taking things apart. I spent a large part of this portion of the dream talking myself in and out of completing the job. Anyway, that part is receding too far to retrieve, as the road trip part of the dream came next, and that was where I landed right before waking up.

 ---

I have a chainsaw that I believe has a frozen motor. I will be taking it in to have it looked at, but they will most likely condemn it to the scrap heap, as a new motor or a rebuild will be prohibitive. I may have designs on repairing it myself, but I'll probably get a second or third opinion first.

And Sharon's LED reignited yesterday for the first time in the several weeks since the power shutoff event. Besides supernatural energy manipulation, thermal expansion is the only scientific reason I can come up with for it showing up. 

The temperature has to be above and below certain thresholds for the light to be on. Right now it is 62 in here. I was in the 60s yesterday when it came on. I'll keep an eye out, to build or debunk that hypothesis. It doesn't stop me from getting excited and talking to Sharon when the light comes on, whatever the cause may be.

A Saturday Soapbox

 

If someone paid me enough, or otherwise incentivized me, perhaps I could buckle down and weave whatever kind of narrative my captor's audience would like to hear. Notice I said captor's and not captive. I feel I'd be the captive and my audience would demand from me a song, a dance or whatever's clever from the court jester. 

In short, would I sell out my principals and individuality for the guarantee of comfort and protection. Mmm, sure, why not? What good are principals and ideology when you are dead? I can always use clever code words to reach the enlightened few, dog whistles embedded in a text conveying an outwardly different message. 

Internal conflicts, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.

I'll shut up and let everyone enjoy their moment. But I'm thinking of a meme that should look like this: a picture of Hillary with a worried look on her face and the caption: "We're gonna need a bigger basket!"

 I will be supremely in awe of Donald Trump's growth as a human being if he can just utter the words, "I lost the election." Sadly, I don't see that happening. But that would be monumental. Paradigm shifting. It would mean that no human is beyond redemption. 

I see in DT all my own worst childlike tendencies. Not an innocent child, but a baby brat 4 year old, or 8, wherever on the spectrum kids can be the most obstinately frustrating. I see a person stuck like that, and I feel a shred of empathy, from one narcissist to another. Maybe I'm more of a closet one, since I'm aware of how odious that makes a person to the general public, and I try to hide it.

But inside each of us, it is there. The "I-me-mine" ego principal. How we dress it up may be different. It isn't inherently bad or good. It's just there. It's part of the hardware of being human. Perhaps we can call it firmware, or even an optional component, but certainly each of us humans has the capacity, or an expansion slot for it on their motherboard. 

Some would argue that ego is vital, like the CPU, completely integral and indispensable. Others would say it is the principal obstacle to enlightened thinking, more like malware, or an overreaching pre-installed operating system. I just see it as one more of those things that I will endure working with while trying to understand it, just so far as it helps me to get on down the road (whatever or whoever the "me" is who is trying to get to wherever the road goes).

How about we all just take a moment to cleanse our pallet? We have been binge watching a reality show called America Gone Wild 2020. We should be feeling dirty. Let’s take a minute to breathe some fresh air, unscented by any sort of political aroma. Just a raw, unfiltered moment. 

Good luck with that, by the way, it’s damn near impossible to do these days. It feels like were all just staring through different ends of the telescope and so naturally things look different. We each feel we are on the “right” end of the telescope. 

But my telescope, for the metaphor’s integrity, is built differently. One side does what a normal telescope does, magnifies distant objects. The other is for drawing back, and gaining a wider perspective. Not sure if real telescopes can do that, so this is my caveat. Anyway, both ends of a spectrum have validity and purpose, but neither of them is all right vs. all wrong in a moralistic sense. 

Looking at things without any lens could be considered optimal, but who among us could even claim that ability? As humans, our nature is to view things, process and assimilate ideas and beliefs about those things and use that to determine our best course of action in this world. Lenses. We need ‘em. 

Perceive the world through the “threat” lens and you will set the mind to working on how to protect yourself from various threats to your existence. That can be helpful in certain situations, where your survival depends on it. I’m not going to go into "tigers and how we need ‘em" here. Digression. But extrapolate that threat principal downward into your day to day life, and let’s see how it plays out. It’s like being in fight mode all the time, or flight, depending on the size of the threat. 

Now, I ask you—is that any way to live? Perceive the world through the peace and love lens, and you might fail to give enough credit to the powers of darkness, which certainly do exist and have their own innate characteristics. I don’t know if I can go so far as to ascribe “rightness” or “wrongness” to either side, dark or light, but I know which one feels better, generally, at any given time. 

Sometimes, I feel the need to be dressed all in black, FTW -- and all that hostility drama. Other times, I feel like, “Oh, no! We gotta root for the cute puppy dogs, we just gotta!” Then there are the times I just feel like, “I’m getting too old for this shit. Beam me the hell up, Scotty.”

Also, for there to be complete integrity, I feel we all need to own our own hate. Whether it is hate for hate (gotta love that paradox) or just a plain old everyday “I don’t like you because of XYZ,” we should, without judgment, take ownership of it. 

Don’t build a world view around it, but recognize the tendencies when they crop up in their various forms. Do you just go along with them? Do you ever question them or put them on hold, to wait for the final count, so to speak, before rendering judgment? 

More and more, I’m trying to adopt a “wait and see” approach to life. At the same time, I’m trying to be free to act in the moment, spontaneously, erroneously at times, unwittingly or intentionally deceiving myself and getting lost in the drama, like everybody else. 

Who the hell said we have to figure it all out before living life? Wing it, right? Fuck it, we weren’t given an instruction manual at birth. We have to write our own. Where am I going? I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’ll be me when I get there. Maybe we’re all on that journey. 

Maybe we should just try to let that sink in before dispensing with vast segments of the population to the wrath of hell. That’s what I propose. Before lowering the basket, think: what if things were reversed, and it was you that was being lowered, however unfairly, into the judgment of damnation? Canceled. Begone, Satan! 

So, I say, sympathy for the devil, yes, why not? When it’s all said and done, in the end, we’re all gonna need a whole lotta sympathy. ~Peace

 

 

 

 

Who knows, God may be a French poodle with an attitude problem, in which case we are all in trouble.

Pat, I'd like to buy...some scrubs

I guess that about says it all. I was on a game show where you were trying to build a stick man, or clothe one, rather by guessing various things. The stick man was you, and you were naked until you managed to guess a thing or two. I needed to get some clothes because I had a date with Rienna. I believe it was her at any rate. I had that "I'm dating Rienna" feeling. I needed to bone up on my knowledge of current events, or I'd be the slacker numbskull that she expected me to be, and that wouldn't do. Hence, the nakedness on the quiz show, I believe. There was more to it, some structure or story, but I don't recall it at this point. I need to pee and we still don't have a president.

A country walk yields a playhouse for Aunt Carol

Well, it was just a prospect. I had yet to run it by her. But as I was walking down a country road, I took a turn, thinking I'd take a shortcut through someone's ranch. I whistled while I walked and tried to be loud so that if someone was there I could get a greeting in at least before they tried to shoot me. 

I wound up spotting Tom Hoskins, the grumpy old dude from YC Honda's service dept. I thought for a moment that he owned the property, but as it turned out, he was looking at it to buy it. That meant that it was up for grabs, I assumed, so I began to look around, as if interested myself. I stumbled across a barn, which was concealing a huge movie theater inside of an auditorium sized warehouse frame. The inside was in disrepair, but it was completely suited for a large sit down venue. 

I immediately began making plans for tearing out the tattered movie screen and setting up a stage for live performances. My aunt carol would buy this place in an instant, I thought to myself. And she would, too, just to be able to say, "Oh, looky-looky, I've got this big venue, we can have our meetings here, and it will attract all kinds of artisty types. I'll be the belle of the ball, I will." 

That was as far as it went, just that projection in my head. Tom still had designs on the place. I tried to convince him that, despite his Honda service record, he was old and not in demand in the workforce. Not very nice, I know, but I wasn't sugar coating it. I really wanted that place and couldn't have him fucking it up. That's about it. I awoke and it is election day. I've been looking forward to the drama that I'm about to see unfold, since other than that little bit of vicarious excitement, life in corona exile is pretty dull.