September flourishes. Not. Yet, maybe. I feel like a pet chasing the little red dot as I pursue time and life. Damn if it isn’t quite elusive.
Today is Thursday, September 2, 2021. Sunshine began its warming, illuminating trend, red, gold, and orange through thin gray smoke, at 6:37 AM. The sun’s flight away, if like yesterday, will be a dirty peach at around 7:43 PM. The cooling trend given us by the seasons changing continues. High yesterday was only seventy-nine in my niche of existence. Today should be just 80 F. The cooler weather brings the cats in. That pleases me. I don’t like them being in the smoke. They have their own minds about where they go and what they do, though. They know how to floofnipulate me.
I’m reading of a number of disasters this morning. Flooding. Ida. New abortion law in Texas. SCOTUS ruling on it. Caldor Fire. Other wildfires. Smoke pollution. Tornados. COVID-19 deaths. Just the U.S. news so far. Well, it includes accusations about Afghanistan. Yes, we’re leaving a screwed up country after twenty years of war, many lives, and a huge chunk of money. Somehow, though, that becomes Biden’s fault. I mean, he has been in office for almost eight months. Eight months out of two hundred and forty, give or take. Yes, I see the reasoning.
Anyway, I end up with “Wasteland” by 10 Years (2005) in my morning mental music streaming. It’s a song about intentions. Inspired by someone dealing with drug addiction. We could easily make the case that the U.S. — even the world — is dealing with addiction. Addictions to greed. Money. Power. War. Addictions twist and malign intentions. Inculcate bad habits, policies, and practices. Bad results follow.
Stay positive. Test negative. Wear a mask. Get the vax. Unless your addictions to death, suffering, and hatred stop you. Here’s the music. Gonna go get some coffee. Don’t call it an addiction, though. Just a friendly relationship. Cheers
A rusty, fog-like orange hue enveloped this entire dream. My wife and I were moving. Another couple was involved. I suspect they were moving at the same time. In honestly, looking back, I believe they were another version of us sharing the dream. Plans were made. How we can move. When. Where. A specific day was selected. We went to the place. Then I discovered, my wife had an appointment for that day and place. She wouldn’t be able to help with the move. Neither would the couple because they were going with her.
I didn’t understand how such a miscommunication could happen. We’re planning a move for that day and she makes an appointment. Yes, I was angry.
We arrived at the place. My wife was driving. There was a huge, steep hill paved with bricks. She drove herself and the couple up it; I walked up it, a strenuous task. A man at the top who helped run things there couldn’t believe that I’d walked up that hill. That I’d kept up with the car. “I don’t believe anyone has ever done that.” He laughed. Because it was a silly statement. People were probably doing it all the time without him noticing.
They went to the appointment. Promises to come back and help — the next day — were given. My exasperation exploded. But I needed to do what I could. I’d come here to move; that’s what I would do. Others were there, eyeing me, asking if everything was okay, if I needed help. I assured all that I was fine. I collected items that were trash, putting them into a bag. Sometimes, some of the others would come by. I’d tell them what it’s the bag and they’d take it with them. About this time or so, “Lido” by Boz Scaggs began playing. It would play through the rest of the dream. I sometimes sang along with it.
To get rid of the trash bag, I climbed up to a chute. I would put the large trash bag into the chute and ride down with it. I did that, arriving out of the chute with the bag as my wife and the other couple returned in the car. At that point, we all realized that I’d almost finished moving our things. We just needed to get into the car and drive to the new location.