Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Alrighty now, what dreams may come
It was an active night, that’s for sure. I don’t know what all else I may have been involved in, but the two dreams that have stuck with me both involved vehicles, and junk.
Such is my life.
Anyway, skip all this crap if you don’t find listening to someone else’s dementia all that entertaining.
First, I found myself wandering along in the countryside—it was pleasant, toward midday—and I was clambering down a dirt road, when I came upon what looked like some kind of steel fabricating shop. There was a yard full of rusty, half-built stuff, along with a few guys puttering around. There was a big metal building off to my right, and then right in front of me was a hunk of welded plate shaped something like a bulldozer blade. For some reason, I decided to squeeze around that, even though I didn’t have to, and as I did, I saw that there were some houses out beyond where the fence was. I walked on through the gate and started walking up the street between the houses, then up a steep old driveway. I walked into a carport, and sat down and started watching television, and an older man came out and asked if I wanted to sit in his Barcolounger. It was right beside the kitchen door—covered in a disreputable-looking green vinyl. I thanked him but declined, and then he wanted to show me his car. I turned around and behind where I had been standing when I first came up was a first-generation Cadillac Seville. He showed me the seats and said it still drove real good and I should take it for a drive. I sat down in it and found myself in his den, listening to a radio. “I don’t drive no more,” he said. I said something to him and said I had to leave.
Sometime later, I was walking through a government warehouse. I knew it was a government warehouse because all the stuff had MIL-SPEC numbers on it, although it looked like none of it had been used since about 1956. Dusty boxes, stuff piled everywhere, and then PAYDIRT! I couldn’t quite tell what it was, and the guy standing there said he thought it was part of a helicopter. It was too small, though. I shoved and tugged and it finally came loose—it was a genuine U.S. Air Force training something-or-other! It had a seat, and some kind of mast behind that looked kind of like it ought to have a helicopter rotor on it, and is was faded blue and had a tiny Briggs and Stratton engine in the back. I pushed it outside into the daylight and began tinkering around with it. It was like a little go-cart of some sort, a bit like the three-wheeler one of my friends had when I was younger. I finally got it cranked and it sounded just like a lawn mower. By this time, I was way out in a pasture, beside a pond, and it was now cold and the ground was frozen. I hopped up into the seat of the thing and it took off. I fumbled with the non-existent controls, trying to steer the thing, and I was hanging on for dear life as it bounced over the ground around the pond, which had great big frozen tire tracks everywhere. The front tire was very thin and on an extended fork like a chopped motorcycle, and it felt like it was going to break off every time it crossed a rut. I managed to get the thing all the way around the pond, though. I looked up in the bleachers and everyone was watching so I waved, but it occurred to me that they were watching the football game going on in the stadium behind me, and not my hijinks around the pond. Which was no longer anywhere around. I pushed the genuine U.S. Air Force training something-or-other to the service station and asked for a spark plug. They didn’t have any.
SO THERE—just a small sample showing why this blog reads the way it does!
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