Orpheus Shmorpheus

Jesus, I just spent an hour screwin’ around with chat program skins, to no effect; I decided I liked the one I’m already using.  I waste too much time sitting here doing that kind of stuff.  Looking at wallpapers, tweaking the operating system, downloading worthless programs to try and then promptly forgetting about them because, after all, they did NOT enrich my browsing experience as promised.  Even when I intend to do legitimate research in aid of something actually worthwhile I more often than not end up on YouTube for hours.  A structured and disciplined mind I have not.

The Missus:  “Did you find the medical website you were going to look up for me?”
Me:  “Heehee!  Look, a ninja kitten!”

That thing about about the neighbor?  Resolved.  The wailing and gnashing of teeth has abated and we are all once more on speaking terms.  Rather than go to the mattresses, we had a sit-down.  Bada-bing.  Also satisfactorily managed:  My Bike Challenge stats remained uncompromised and I pwn’d in both mileage and percentage.  Pretty damned happy about that.  Oddly, no one I know is suitably impressed.  All this AND I’ve managed for yet another couple of weeks to keep my dissatisfaction with my position at the dust mines down to a dull nibbling sensation (this is no one’s fault; it’s all this talk of our – the little woman’s and mine – proposed relocation to Albuquerque that has me suddenly champing at the bit at the promise of change.  You know how, when you’ve decided to move to another apartment or house, the tiny inadequacies and annoyances of your current residence start to eat at you?  Same thing, except, uh, bigger).

Oh, I don’t think a parenthetical statement should be almost half the length of the paragraph, do you?  Say it ain’t so, Joe!

The dream I had last night was an odd one (well duh) and I think the relocation plan played a part.  In the dream I had moved (alone; either my dream-self was unmarried, or my dream-missus was appalled at the nature of our new digs and had left me) to a neighborhood of plain, cube-shaped concrete sheds.  The neighborhood was constructed in a grid pattern, with roads intersecting at every interval, i.e. on every side of each shed.  There was a constant stream of slow traffic, automobiles idling forward as if in a drive-in theater cruising for a spot to park.  The interior of my shed was quite spacious and entirely bare except for a bare light bulb overhead and a drain in the middle of the floor.  I had arranged my furniture around the drain.  I was very pleased with it.

Now I have lived minimally at various points in my life.  At one time the only furniture I had was an army surplus cot and a card table, with a portable stereo and a library card my sole sources of in-home entertainment.  I was quite content with that lifestyle once upon a time.  This dream abode, however, once I woke up and had time to ponder it, was just a bit too Jame Gumb for me.  I could place lotions and baskets around just for fun to make friends snicker, but since I keep my circle small it would probably wear thin quickly.

I actually have moving dreams often, and always they have an element of difficulty that my dream-self doesn’t mind but my wake-self finds puzzling if not horrifying.  A “house” in another dream resembled a vast furniture showroom, with tables and lamps and chairs everywhere and with an old, warped screen door with a hook-and-eye fastener being the sole entrance.  The street outside looked like a slum, with unshaven, menacing persons peering in as they shambled past the door.  In another we (my wife apparently liked this one enough to stick around) bought a two-story house with a narrow stairway to the second floor, that floor being where the previous tenants kept all the pianos.  Like, thirty or forty pianos.  I would have to trundle all of them downstairs and out of the house before we could move in.  I want to ask my wife later, “What, a nice big empty room with a handy drain in the floor is divorce-worthy but you’d be happy to watch me shift forty pianos down a flight of  stairs?  What the Hell?”

It’s fairly obvious I have security anxieties, but if they provide fodder for dreams I’m good with it.  I even enjoy the nightmares (after I’m awake; I’ve had nightmares wake me in the night and realized they weren’t real only after having taken a few steps toward the bathroom).  Most are just odd and become vapor soon after I wake, but some have stayed with me for years.  This might be unusual, I don’t know.  I’ve never had a dream scenario into which I wanted to disappear, but they make damn fine entertainment.  Well, usually.  My sex dreams never turn out well.  Ever.  What good is it that my dream-self is magnificently endowed if my otherwise lovely dream-partner’s vagina is a snapping squid’s beak?  No matter how well these kinds of dreams start, I always seem to end up in Cthulhu’s House o’ Humps or something equally bizarre and horrible.  I’ve stated elsewhere that sex, for me, is vastly over-rated, but if my subconscious is going to make me dream about it, couldn’t it at least make it pleasant?  Just once I’d like to wake from one deliciously sprawled and languid ‘neath the dampened sheets instead of shivering and in a fetal position.

The morning toast and newspaper awaits.  Adieu.


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