Mott the Floople (floofinition) – Floofish glam floof-rock (flock) band formed in the early 1970s.
In use: “Mott the Floople’s biggest hit was “All the Fine Young Floofs”, written by David Floofwie, who was a big fan of the band.”
Floofo Voce (floofinition) – Voice modified or used specifically when speaking to animals.
In use: “Many people changed their pitch and tone when speaking to their pets, employing a floofo voce approach rich with their love and concern for their pets, but could also be employed with mild changes, to a play voice.”
I was explaining an analogy to a young deceased relative.
First, though, I was arrested.
I’d made the decision to take actions to be arrested. This, I thought, would be for the best. So, I returned to the table on a stand where I’d been working with others. I wrote a not on a small yellow Postit using a heavy black marker, just a few words, and then I made a phone call, and then sat back to be arrested.
Others were confused, first about my return, because I would be arrested if I returned, and then that I’d returned knowing that I’d be arrested. The police arrived, and then my wife. I was walked in handcuffs by the police. My wife and others followed behind me as my wife explained that I was being arrested.
Once arrested, I was processed in a dream blip and then released to confinement to clear myself. I knew that the gates were closing at midnight. I had twenty minutes to get out or I’d need to wait until morning. I didn’t want to wait because I knew where I had to go and do to clear myself.
I hastened to dress and clean up. A black man was there, my cellmate. He was sitting at a card table, eating and watching television. I set myself up at another available card table and went off to brush my teeth.
The bathroom was open. Two sets of sinks and identical red toothbrushes were in a cup. One must be my cellmate’s, I figure. I picked one and looked at it. It seemed used, so that should be his.
The segment ended.
Next, I was sitting in a room, explaining something to my cousin, Jeff. Younger than me, he’d died almost twenty years ago. I told him, “Your abdomen is part of your torso, but your torso is not part of your abdomen. See how it works?”
He didn’t, so I did more. I said, “You’re from Texas. Texas is part of the United States but the United States is not part of Texas. One must contain the other to be part of it. Like, your hand. Your finger is part of your hand but your hand is not part of your finger.”
He remained confused. An officer I’d worked with in 1983, Walt, had entered. Listening, he’d been mulling it over. Walt, said, “Well, I don’t know if your analogy works on all levels.”
I replied, “I’m talking about physical aspects. I’ll specify the physical.”
Walt said, “Oh, alright, then,” and my cousin nodded, understanding.
The dream ended.
This came straight up the memory pipe into the music stream this morning, right out of Canada and 1983 in my head in the U.S., 2020. I don’t know what resided down in the memory wells that said, “Let’s fire this mutha back into conscious memory.” Nothing leaps out as an ignition moment. But here we are with “Hot Girls in Love” by Loveboy.