Saturday’s Theme Music
Congratulations. You have won a beautiful, brand-new Saturday, March 12, 2022. What will you do with your new day? Maybe clean the house, go to a concert, talk a walk, run errands, do general chores, read a book, play an instrument, knit, cook, eat, party, celebrate, sleep?
Day overtook night with sunrise at 6:28 AM. Tomorrow, as we spring ahead, sunrise will be at 7:25. But tomorrow’s sunset will be an hour later than the 6:14 PM of today. I don’t care. Just stop with it. Does it accomplish anything any longer?
Spring-flavored weather is in the air, with March’s roars shaking tree branches. A mild shower is expected in the afternoon. We’re at 60 degrees F now, with a high of 68 in the works.
A cover of “Blue Monday” by Orgy (1999) (which was originally released by New Order in the early 1980s) is running around and around and around the morning mental music stream, a writing derivative arriving because I was asking characters how they feel about a moment, and how I felt about the new novel in progress and its emerging, evolving directions. The neurons picked up on the quest for feelings and began playing the song. And here we are.
Stay positive, etc. You know it by now, don’t you? Keep Ukraine in your well of good outcomes. I’m going for coffee, as my well has run dry. Cheers
The Confused Writing Dream
I was in a small building where there was a small office busy with people. It had a feel that seemed lifted from a 1950s movie. They had published something. Different authors were asked to read it and express what they thought. I was one, and my response was not like everyone else’s, triggering a new path.
Yet, I was never certain what was going on. I’d read and commented on something, but it seemed vague throughout the dream. My response made them ask me attend a conference with them. An old friend, a college professor, was going, too. He and I would go together, driving across country in a big, dark blue Lincoln Continental. He prepared to go in a hectic frenzy. I seemed baffled about everything he did and confused about what was going to happen next. Yet, soon we were in the car, driving across the country through light rain.
He was driving. I said something about seeing people needing a ride and wishing we could help them. Next thing that I knew, he pulled over for a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker climbed into the back. I offered to take a turn driving but the professor insisted that he was fine.
Seeing several more people on the side of the road, he pulled over and offered them a ride. I was leery of this, feeling that we didn’t have the room, but people crammed into the car. I looked into the back seat; it looked like a small, cluttered room. A blanket covered the rear window. That was to keep out the light so people could sleep, I guessed, but worried that it was illegal and we’d be pulled over. I again offered to drive, but he dismissed the offer.
We arrived at the conference. My impression was that it was a giant flea market, although it was indoors. People selling junk seemed to cover every square foot. Moving was done slowly, carefully, patiently. Food was being sold. I was hungry but passed on getting something to eat because I was reminded that we were having a big banquet. Someone gave me cookies, which I ate.
The head, a tall and bald white, middle-aged male wearing hornrim glasses, gave a short speech. He told everyone else that I was going to write about my impressions of the article they’d published. That startled me. Everyone applauded except me. Bewilderment was overtaking me. I was to do what, when? I didn’t understand but didn’t know how to ask the question.
Then, without me doing anything, the professor told me it was time to go. I realized that it was the weekend and that he needed to be back in order to teach Monday morning. We rushed around, packing things into the car. I offered to drive, since he’d driven us out there. He agreed. The dream ended as I entered the car and put my hands on the steering wheel.