The Flying Fart Dream

Outside, in a city – maybe a U.S. suburb – at a broad intersection along under clear blue skies. I fart without warning. It’s not a large thing, just a sort of sharp, “Pop,” but with it, I take off perhaps fifty feet into the air and travel several hundred feet. Then, in dream fashion, I’m at the same point, and in quick succession, it happens twice more.

On the fourth time, I kept wind of what was happening (yeah, sorry, had to put it in). I asked myself, how can a fart like that propel me so high and far? There had to be another cause, like weather. I crane all around for what could be behind my flights. Then I fart again, launching anew, traveling the same path, height, and distance.

It must be the farts, I conclude, and wonder what I ate to give me such prodigiously powerful gas. Time is spent pondering that but I’m back on the corner, releasing without warning one more fart.

This time, I think, try to take advantage of it. I spread my arms like wings and flatten my body into a plan and lean forward. Doing this, I catch a breeze, traveling further and higher than before.

Back at my original spot, I’m laughing at events. I fly via a fart. If I learned what was fueling me, maybe I could go further. Then again, I’m always back at the same place, like some perverse Groundhog Day twist.

End dream.

Friday’s Theme Music

Friday. June 10, 2022. That’s the bare facts of it. It gets interesting when we talk about sunrise and sunset and temperatures. That’s where places show their differences. Here in the Rogue Velly, it’s 72 F with a chance to hit 81 F. Sunny but cloudy, so it’s humid on us. Cats are in floof heaven, coming in to eat and then seeking a pleasant napping space outside, somewhere perchance to do bird watching and insect spying without getting too warm. The world’s spin will take the sun away at 8:46 PM after bringing it around to us at 5:34 AM.

Don’t tell Tucker about the weather, though, he still needs his ration of attention. Entering the office, he fixes a dark stare on me and makes a pitch: “Merow.” Having fed him, refilled all the bowls, and replenished his water, after spending a night petting him whenever the other one, Papi — they’re a tag team — woke me up, I ignore Tucker. He then comes over and sits beside me and asks, “Mmmmw.” I shake my head. A trill is issued and then Tucker jumps up onto the desk, walks around the computer, and waits for my hand to go to the mouse. As soon as it does, he begins rubbing his head and face against my hand, pouring out a purr that would shame an idling dragster.

Received my second COVID-19 booster yesterday, Moderna, and feeling it this morning. Like the body is fighting off a low-grade flu. Aching joints and listless muscles, lethargic brain, and low energy, right? Yeah. Got up late and will probably return to bed shortly. Tucker says, “I’ll join you if you do.”

The neurons are playing “Wishing You Were Here” by Chicago (1974) in the morning mental music stream. There is a chain of events for this. My wife bought me a small pin which says, “Wish you were beer.” I wear it on my Tilly hat. Often while chatting with people, they’ll say, “What’s that say on your hat.” Then they’re read it aloud. Overhearing that happen yesterday, the neurons began with the Chicago song. Why that instead of Pink Floyd, “Wish You Were Here”? Don’t know. They’re not saying.

Here’s the song. Stay pos and test neg, etc. Enjoy your day. Cheers

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