Dreams. Man, sometimes you really have to wonder just what the heck is going on in your little pea brain when it is randomly firing, or else using machine cycles to replenish memory locations or shift from short term to long term parking, such that dreams are just the innocent byproduct.
As a compromise between my desire to stay up late and write, getting up early during the week because Mrs. Dr. Phil still has to go to work, and having some additional time lying down so that my foot can be elevated at least some of the time -- I have implemented the Morning Nap Program, in additional to the previously established Evening Nap Program. The ENP varies from 20 to 60 minutes, usually 30 to 40. But the MNP is between 1-2 hours.
I have been on fire of late in my writing, so that's the only excuse I can have for these last two mornings.
Monday's was a doozy. For some reason a student had stopped by my house just to chat. And they complained that it was cold in the house. Well, I often feel cold these days, with the medications I'm on (damned blood thinners). But when I checked the thermostat, there was a new red graphic outline on the bottom saying it needed a new battery. Let's forget for the moment that our thermostat doesn't have a color screen. Now it is true that it has been more than 12 months since our last HVAC service, but our thermostat needs a AA battery, not a 9-volt. And the dream turned into one of the endless search dreams, where I could not find a 9-volt battery, new or used, anywhere in the house. And of course the house was weird, with the basement like in White Plains and the upstairs a weird amalgam of the two places we've lived in Allendale. Strange that I could see a shadow in my dream mind of the drawer where we keep batteries, but I couldn't find it anywhere in the house. Meanwhile, it was getting colder and colder.
Today's involved me driving to, or rather trying to drive to Kalamazoo. Which makes sense because given our non-weather in West Michigan, I decided to make today my drive in for a half-day of beating computers into submission at the office. This time our house in the country was more of a house on a farm and the garage was being rebuilt, with a second door into the kitchen. (!) And for some reason, I was intent on hitching up a little trailer onto the Toro riding lawn mower and use that to drive on the shoulder from Allendale to Kalamazoo "Like I always do when the weather was nice." Except I was in a t-shirt and while the sun was out, the temperature was still in the 30s and it occurred to me that maybe this was a bad idea. You think?
As if driving at 5-7 mph for 70 miles would EVER make sense. I don't even know that I checked the gas tank, which requires tilting the seat back. Maybe that's what the trailer was for -- my briefcase and a couple of plastic cans of gasoline. (snort)
But having decided to drive, it was my old Suburban, except in nice condition. My father was ragging on me that it was crazy that I was still around and couldn't even leave on time for my class, and I kept saying I had the time worked out, that I had done this "all the time." I opened the garage door with the remote in the Suburban, and by the time I drove the Toro and its trailer into the garage, and gone inside to grab my things, my father had locked the old door into the kitchen and had the new door in place, but without any handles yet. And with garage door closed, I had to key my way out of the side door, except my key broke in the lock.
Yup, one of those endless disaster days. But wait, it gets worse.
Because when I went out to the Suburban, which I had left nose pointing down the drive, my father had for some reason turned it around, and when I opened the door, there was all this stuff piled on the front seats. I mean I had to dig down in the stuff on the seats just to get the floor mats and put them back on the floor, and I think I ever saw that tan vinyl flooring fully exposed the day I bought the thing in September 1979! So I'm complaining about him wasting my time and my father shooting back that he thought I had PLENTY of time, from what I had said.
For the life of me I cannot understand the passive aggressiveness of my father. It was so out of character that Sue the woman who does the upholstery for Gas Monkey Garage on Fast and Loud yelled at him for not listening to his son.
Ah, the dreaming mind. Makes you understand why the characters in the Wim Wenders film Until The End Of The World got addicted to watching their own dreams in the waking world... Alas, the dreams this week provided no useful fodder for either the current Work In Progress or adaptable into another story.
Which is probably why I suppose I decided to dump this stuff here. (dreamy-grin)
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