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.

Thursday, February 05, 2004

Oh, so it’s drivel you want…

Well, friends, nothing more drivelous than reading about someone else’s dream from the night before, so here goes.

I blame myself. I was thinking yesterday on the way home from work that it has been weeks since I had a really memorable dream. I figured I have just been too tired to think up a good one. And last night didn’t help any--church night, and every single stinkin’ one of the kids had homework, and every single stinkin’ one of them were whining about not being able to figure any of it out, and they all had to get their baths, and the kitchen was a mess from Reba’s good-hearted attempt to heat up a big container of roast and potatoes and carrots and onions in a big saucepan that was just not quite big enough to hold it all which caused little dribbles of soup to blurp over the rim and fall down into the element and give off the wonderful odor of potatoes being scalded with a flamethrower and AAAHHHH! Too much stuff.

Anyway, Oldest finally got into bed around the time Dave had finished an episode of Identify the Battered and Fried Object (it was binoculars) and I turned out the lights and hit the bed like a lump of lead. Then the fun began--in all of its fatigued, starch-and-onion-fueled, externally stimulated glory.

There’s a strong storm system moving in from the west, and so all yesterday and last night (and today, for that matter), the wind had been howling. At some point in there I was listening to it, and looked up to see that the painters had not put the window screens back on right. Dang it all! I walked all around the driveway, and saw that some of the screens even had little broken tabs, and then a moment later, I looked at them from the inside in the bedroom and saw that they were barely even on! Dumb painters! They were just a-flopping around, and the wind was getting worse and worse and banging and the lights went out. I felt my way around the edge of the room and opened a door and found myself standing outside a tiny, battered, tarpaper shed in the backyard of our old house in Irondale.

Everything around was blowing and from the condition of the house and the shed, I knew immediately that I had been trapped in some sort of mad scientist constructed, experimental computer-generated hologram building just like the holodeck on Star Trek, and I had been there for FIFTY YEARS! I figured the storm must have knocked out the power to the shed and killed the holographic illusion I had been living, but more importantly, THERE WAS A TORNADO bearing down on me! Over to the west, a long, low, dark, cloud touching the ground for miles--and then I heard that freight train sound and knew I had to get somewhere safe, so I threw myself into a shallow depression over by the old wooden fence and then…

WHOA! Man, what a DREAM!

I looked out the window and saw that although I had been dreaming about the whole holographic tarpaper shed deal, we had been on the receiving end of some more sort of storm. The aluminum shed in the back corner of the yard had blown over to a neighbor’s yard three doors down, with bits of it and other debris scattered all over the place, and the lawn mower was sitting there uncovered and the kid’s bicycles and a couple of cars. I stood on the downstairs patio and looked up at the scrubby little oak tree in the opposite corner of the yard from the blown-down shed, and in the very top was a red 1969 Pontiac Bonneville four door that looked to have been completely torn to shreds and WHOA! Dang it ALL!

I hate it when I have one of those dreams-within-a-dream.

I looked over at the clock but couldn’t tell what time it said, but the wind really was kicking up outside, but I was too tired to turn on the television and see if we were supposed to be downstairs in the laundry room.

Dumb old dreams.

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