This was a dream about port, the fortified wine drink. A very expensive bottle of port had turned up missing from its crate. The owners were the U.S. government. CIA, I think. I didn’t know who took it but I quickly realized where it was. The bottle had been sent to offer samples to people at a function. I met with the agent, a blond, white male, clean shaved, tousled hair, average height, casual clothes, and relayed what I’d learned. He told me it was critical to recover that bottle. I told him that I would get it back.
A strange car journey in a Ford Thunderbird convertible (a 1965, I think, which was what my father owned) followed, a circuitous route that embraced old steel girder bridges over ravines and rivers, a bumpy, dusty lane, a winding country highway, and a modern American Interstate. I always knew where I was going but detours kept coming up. Fair weather and certainty kept me calm, though.
I arrived at the function, where a gathering of women was about to open the bottle to sample it. I intervened, telling them they’d been sent the wrong bottle and producing another bottle for their benefit. The agent arrived to take the bottle from me. We then agreed we would go to the river. A few others joined us enroute, including a female acquaintance of mine, a young white woman with a round face and a short, black bob. The agent told me to open the bottle. That confused the woman. She protested that it was supposed to be a protected bottle, according to her understanding. I replied, that was a different time. Circumstances had shifted and we were approved to open the bottle to sample it.
I turned to the agent for confirmation. After talking about it with me and thinking more, he agreed with me. We opened the bottle and poured small portions into fine, small glasses. Toasting, we drank.
Yea, verily, the sojourners did come to Saturday and proclaimed it to be December 11, 2021. And the wind did blow after the sun rose at 7:29 AM, gusting through the trees with a fierce bark, whereupon the people, seeing this, did declare that they were happy to be behind windows, doors, and walls, though the cats, being contrarians, did demand that they experience this weather for themselves. And so, the cats went out into the wind, and the day was not as bad as the house-dwellers feared, because it was 46 degrees F. Sunset is at 4:39 PM, the cats were told, whereupon, they replied, “We don’t care. We’re cats.”
“Feelin’ Alright” by Joe Cocker rides the morning mental music stream. A friend shared this Ed Sullivan Show Joe Cocker appearance from 1969 on her FB. I was 12 when this aired. The fashion, dancing, and colors all ignited memories of that era. Then came the thoughts, look how young Cocker looks. Appreciation for the song and its lyrics was rekindled. Interesting interaction between musicians and dancers can be observed, too. It’s a happening scene all around.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, bludgeon COVID-19 when you can, and get the jabs. I’m getting coffee. You read me? Here’s the music. Cheers