I walked two miles this morning prior to my writing session. As I did, I thought, man, it already feels hot. Sweat was soaking my shirt, hat, and shorts. I knew from checking the weather that it had already been in the seventies but that the heat index was about six degrees hotter.
It felt it. It fortunately didn’t feel like the one hundred nine degrees reported in Denver, thank the fates. As expected for me, I began streaming songs about heat, and ended up with this Billy Idol gem from 1982, “Hot in the City”.
I awoke hungry from last night’s dream.
It was a simple thing. My wife and I were with many other people. I knew them all, but she’s the only one I recognize from my actual life.
After walking on a cement walk, we entered a hall or reception area. I smelled food as soon as I walked in. Huge, the place bustled with people hurrying about. I realized most were servers. Long tables of food were set up along the walls on either side.
My wife and I were confused, asking one another, are we supposed to be here? Neither of us knew. We were looking around. The people we’d been with were not with us. We couldn’t see them. We saw a lot of other people, but not anyone we knew. I decided, “We must be in the wrong place. We took a wrong turn. We’re not supposed to be here.”
She agreed with me. We were turning to leave when a young serving woman in dress in black, with a white apron, approached and said, “Let me show you to your table.”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” I said. “Is this a wedding or reception?”
The young woman looked confused. “No. This is where everyone eats.”
I was confused. “Who is everyone?”
“So this food is for everyone?”
We went back and forth talking about it because I was sure there was something yet to be revealed about what included everybody, but it was a circular dialogue, with the answer being that we’re supposed to be here. The food was for us.
My wife and I looked at one another. “I guess we’re supposed to be here,” I said.
“You are,” the woman said. “Follow me to your table.”
We followed her but I remained highly doubtful. She took us to a table, one of those big, round ones, set with flatware and glasses for ten. A young man came up, asking if what we wanted to drink. He could get us anything that we wanted. We chose our drinks. He went off. We then realized it was a buffet and went off to one side. There was table after table with food parallel to the wall, with servers waiting behind the tables. I think I saw everything – turkeys, hams, steaks, and fish, along with bowls of vegetables, and potatoes prepared in different ways, like scalloped, boiled new with butter and parsley, and mashed. I saw an omelet bar, a huge salad bar, and pies, cakes, and cookies at a another table, and an ice cream sundae bar.
The sight of so much food floored me. I still didn’t think I was supposed to be there. I was certain there was a misunderstanding. Nevertheless, I ordered food, which is where the dream ended.
Writing this up today, I realize I’ve had similar dreams to this before. I derive a meaning from it that makes me grit my teeth, that I continue to doubt myself, believing that I’m not worthy, that I don’t belong to wherever I’m going.
Laissez-floof (catfinition) – a feline practice of deliberately not interfering with or bothering other animals.
In use: “The second reason Quinn is such a good member of a multiple cat household is his laissez-floof attitude toward other cats.”
I wonder if Charles Dickens was ever called Charlie or Chuck?
Anyway, I’ve done these things that he referenced, prowling to find ideas and words, beginning and stopping, beginning again…
I don’t know where I first heard this hit. It came out in ’63. I was seven. It’s not Mom and Dad’s style of music, and my older sister was only nine, so I discount all those sources. Later, of course, it was played on AM pop and FM rock stations, and wormed its way into movies like Animal House. I dig (catch that lingo) that the hit was performed by a band from Portland in my adopted state of Oregon.
Here is “Louie Louie” performed by The Kingsmen.
Your silence tells me
something must be wrong
I can’t tell by your face
It’s blank as stone
It bothers me to hear you
staying so still
No matter what I say
Emptiness is all I feel
My words run dry
trying to dig something out
I don’t know where to turn
so I just walk out
there’s a distance in the feet between us
that can’t be measured or crossed
I feel my efforts are wasted
and our time has been a loss
Floof Talk (catfinition) – an intense, usually brief speech a person gives their cat (and sometimes, dog) to modify or change behavior.
In use: “We’re going to have a little floof talk today,” she said to the watching cat as did every morning. “What are we not going to do today? We are not going to steal mommy’s breakfast. We are not going to throw up on mommy’s clothes, and we’re not going to destroy mommy’s mail and papers, right? Right. What are we going to do? We’re going to be a good little kitty, aren’t we? Yeah, right.”