Japanese word for the tendency to buy books and not read them.
h/t to Japan Powered.
Japanese word for the tendency to buy books and not read them.
h/t to Japan Powered.
After knowing one another for fifty-one years, including forty-five years of marriage, they remain a couple separated by a common language, even though they’re both American.
One of the weirder dreams experienced last week stayed with me. This was from last Wednesday.
I’d entered a large building on some business. I was in a hurry and a little annoyed when someone hailed me. The young man in a suit confirmed my identity, increasing my annoyance, and then said, “I wanted to ensure that you knew your cars were here.”
People hurried around us. “What cars?” I asked. Given with great impatience, I waited for the answer so that I could explain that I’d flown in. It also seemed odd that he said ‘cars’ instead of ‘car’. On the other hand, maybe someone had provided me a rental.
“Your cars,” the young man replied, as if that explained anything.
I told him that explained nothing.
He looked at me like trees were growing out the sides of my head. “Your cars,” he responded and then spit out with haste, “Your cars were shipped here.” He spoke like he didn’t believe that I didn’t know this. “You have eight hundred and fifty-four cars.”
I repeated that number back to him. It was a ridiculous number. When he confirmed it, my mind looked for explanations and figured, oh, he means model cars or Matchbox cars or toy cars, something like that. Smiling, I asked, “Where are they?” I’d see them and then I would pursue understanding of how I’d come to have eight hundred and fifty-four cars. Someone was behind this, doing it as a joke. “Can you take me to them?”
Joy lit the young man’s expression. “Yes, sir, right this way, sir.”
We were in one of those convention centers attached to hotels, or the other way around, and had to cross a wide space. We entered a garage filled with cars and stopped. I waited.
“There are your cars,” the young guy said.
I knew the guy meant all those cars in that garage. My vision roamed. Chevies. Ferraris. Fords. Mazdas. Mercedes. Jaguars. Porsches. A Jeep.
The guy asked, “Is everything alright, sir?”
I explained that I was surprised. I didn’t think these cars were mine. I thought there was a mistake. The other kept insisting, these are your cars, you are the right person and explained that they’d gone through great lengths to verify who I was. “Who did that? Who is they?” I naturally asked. No coherent answer was given.
The young man and I walked among the rows of cars. I verified, eight hundred and fifty-four. He confirmed that and then went on, cataloging the cars’ abilities, amusing me. He said, “You have fast cars and very fast cars, new cars, and old cars.” He was pointing at cars as he spoke and I was turning, gawking at the collection, stunned beyond further thought. Many famous and rare models were present. I eyed pretty green Mustangs that I was sure were in movies, silver Ferraris, and red Ferraris, blue Porsches, and a yellow Jeep. A low and wide Lamborghini and a stately, dark Rolls Royce. Old cars, new cars. All were in great shape.
The dream ended with me standing in the garage wondering, where did I get all of these cars and what was I going to do with them?
Reading this after capturing it all doesn’t give insight into how rapidly this unfolded. The dream was a torrent. I guess that’s the mind, rationalizing explanations of the scenes and images, trying to develop something cogent, and failing. Cheers
The basics are, it’s Sunday, July 17, 2022, 19 C with a clear blue sky. Sunrise was established at 5:49 AM. The world’s turning gives us an 8:44 PM sunset. They say the local high will be 89 F. For the week, we’re looking at highs in the high 80 F to low 90s rage, eminently livable.
Beyond those basics, it’s not looking good for local produce. The weather was just too wacky and misaligned from the growing season. Nothing showed up on our neighbors’ peach and cherry trees beyond leaves. No blossoms and fruit ever arrived. We’ve heard similar tales from others. The blackberries, which are generally plentiful, disappeared after a week. Meanwhile, heat and flooding is afflicting crops elsewhere in the U.S. and Europe is enduring a killer heatwave. Triple digit temps are challenge Texas’ and their ability to cope with increased heat. China is facing extreme heat. What are the connections to these things? Health risks. I suspect climate change, but this is one year. More data is needed. I suggest the patterns and data of other years clears the situation and shows the trends. But I’m not a scientist.
The Neurons planted Tracy Chapman’s 1988 song, “Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution”, into the morning mental music stream. The song’s genesis on this morning can be traced back to a Friday conversation about electric cars and their growing prevalence. As Le Neruons awoke, they caught on to someone commenting about a revolution, which brought up Chapman’s lyrics:
h/t to Genius.com
Got my coffee. I urge you to stay positive and test negative. Hard during our trip, honestly. While social spacing was the norm, recognized and respected at almost every venue and moment, the unmasked to masked ratios at most locations was about ten to one. Our traveling companions weren’t masked. But we — my spouse and I — were masked. But then, our traveling companions were not. So, while eating and driving, we were exposed. But to what were we exposed? Nothing? Or the virus? Which variation? My writing has ground to a halt because I’m not going to coffee shops to write. Frustration has reached eleven (see This is Spinal Tap for greater understanding.) Writing at home becomes debilitating as interruptions pile up and continuity is fractured.
Well, I must persist. He’re the music. Cheers
On a WP side note, WP kept removing ‘Talking ’bout A Revolution’ after I added it to the tags. Don’t know why, but it happened SIX TIMES.
I dreamed my friend’s wife offered to have an affair with me. She’s not a person I know from RL. I knew her in the dream from previous visits. After this visit with my wife, she asked me to walk her home. I agreed, to be polite. She said good-bye to my wife and the woman and I began walking. As we were walking, she began singing “Close to You”. The Carpenters had a hit with the song in the last century.
I didn’t think anything of it. When we reached her place, we hugged. She didn’t release me. That’s when she proposed the affair and told me, “Wasn’t it a clue when I was singing the song?” I admitted that it wasn’t. She was very attractive and I was interested. I asked her how it would work. We ended up parting ways with a promise to see one another again.
I went to a friend’s house. Other women were there. I heard them talking about having affairs with different friends. They were apparently paying the men after they broke off the affairs. One woman said emphatically, “I give them three weeks and then I’m done with them. They want more but I won’t give them anymore.” Another woman answered, “They always want more.” I didn’t know any of these women.
I went back to my house. We were preparing to have a dinner party. I found that my wife had moved all the furniture out of one bedroom and planned to make it the master bedroom because it was larger. The house was light blue and the interior walls were white. Both bedrooms were very large and ensuite. I didn’t like the plan, reminding her that she didn’t talk with me first and that there were reasons we’d made the decisions which we had about which room was the master bedroom. She told me that her friend, who’d proposed the affair, had made the suggestion.
I went off to do a task, which was to etch a line in a glass so I could break it off and splinter it. A friend arrived for dinner and asked what I was doing. I smiled and explained, “I’m breaking glass. We need broken glass.” He replied that he thought there was an easier way to get broken glass.
The affair friend arrived. She talked me into going into another room with her where we ended up passionately kissing. Hearing a noise, we broke it off, separating and leaving the room.
I went to another friend’s house. He wasn’t there but several other friends were. They were helping him to submit a manuscript for publication. I stepped up to help, listening as the friends spoke. They said this was the last time they were helping him. As they talked, I checked out the box they were using. Opening it up, I found a poorly typed manuscript and several mailing labels. The labels weren’t affixed to anything. I commented on it, telling them that the labels needed to be fixed. They ignored me, closing the box and taping it shut. The tape was old and kept breaking and wouldn’t stick. They were still talking about how they’d tried to help him for yours and was tired of it because he didn’t seem to be making an effort. I’d been about to appeal to them for help but decided they weren’t very helpful.