White Hole in Flannel

He’s seven feet tall and chalky white with an unlined face. The sandy hair that’s swept to one side never seems shorter or longer. His eyes are as black and soulless as the eyes I’ve seen on a shark when I was underwater in a cage. They’re eyes that don’t judge or care; they only see.

This is what he is. His long fingers with their trimmed, polished nails lack whorls and ridges. Blinking seems beyond him. Speaking isn’t done, nor is touching. He’s always wearing the same blue jeans, sandals, and black and red flannel shirt. Smiles, as are other expressions, never find his face.

My friend, Emily, calls him a white hole, a person who takes everything in and puts nothing back out. True, except for his piano playing. When he sits and plays, we hear songs that seem to transcend our existence. When he’ll play, what he’ll play, why he play, these things are more mysteries. He shows up, and stands beside the piano until he’s given leave to play. Then he plays, and then he leaves. If we’re fortunate, we’re there to hear.

That’s why I decided that I needed to follow him. I wanted to know where he lives and who he was. It wasn’t my first mistake in life, but it was my biggest.

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Floofnik

Floofnik (floofinition) – an ardent supporter of pets and animals’ rights; someone who fervently loves animals.

In use: “When her children left home, she became a floofnik, spending time at shelters, fostering animals, helping animals, and raising them, eventually buying a large property to use as an animal sanctuary.”

Floofcebo

Floofcebo (floofinition) – the psychological lift provided from the company of animals.

In use: “Girlfriend gone, fired from his job, and now it was raining. Suicidal thoughts were entertained, but his dog trotted over, sat down against his leg, and smiled up at him, tongue hanging from his mouth. The floofcebo effect brought an immediate grin. After a few moments of rubbing his dog’s head and scratching his ears, he got up, made coffee, and began making plans to find a better job.”

A Running Dream

Oh, the nights flowed with wild, wild dreams. They remain vivid in memory, but I don’t want to walk through dreamland, just visit a little niche of it.

I needed to get home in a hurry. I was miles away. I decided that the best thing that I could do is run.

A light drizzle was falling. I started running beside the busy, winding two lane highway. At first, cars were passing me. Irritated, I pushed myself to go faster. “I can go faster than them,” I told myself, even though they were going thirty-five to forty miles an hour. Soon, I was keeping up with the cars. I saw people in the vehicles watching and recording my running with their cellphones.

Ahead was a large sweeper. I’d been running on the berm left of the white fog line. The berm and shoulder disappeared; there was a twenty-five foot drop-off. Looking ahead and thinking about it, I decided I had no choice. Reaching the drop-off, I dropped to the lower level like a video-game character, and kept running. I knew that the people in the cars were wondering what’d happened to me, and grinned as I ran up a slope back onto the berm when it returned.

By then, the road’s grade increased as we began ascending a mountain. I can’t keep up, I thought, and then rejected that. Believing I could, I pushed myself to go faster. The road’s speed limit had increased to fifty-five, but as I ran up the hill, I passed the cars. Grinning and sweating, I arrived home.

It wasn’t home, but Mom’s home, where I was visiting with family. My wife was there and we were in a hurry because I needed to make flight arrangements and leave. That’s another part of the dream, though.

I woke up thinking about all of this. It was five ten in the morning. A hungry cat had done his duty and made me get up to do my duty. As I fed him (and another), the dream replayed in my mind, and the Boomtown Rats began singing, “I Don’t Like Mondays”. I went back to bed, back to sleep, and on to other dreams.

 

Friday’s Theme Music

After another night of peculiar dreams that ended with Boomtown Rats singing “I Don’t Like Mondays”(hello, it’s Friday), and streaming some Brian Seltzer, “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” arrived in the stream. I had the dubious enjoyment of Bob Dylan’s original version alternating with the Guns n’ Roses cover. Clapton’s reggae version slipped in there a few times, as did the a recording of Tom Petty singing it with Bob Dylan.

Although I prefer Bob’s original song, the Guns n’ Roses’ cover (1990) dominated today, so I went with it. Had to have a shot of coffee before I stopped feeling like I was knocking on heaven’s door.

Cheers

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