Thursday’s Theme Music

We’ve slipped the surly bonds of one day and into the grasp of another. I shall call this one, Thursday the thirteenth of January, 2022. Having said it, the reality spreads like a virus, infecting everyone.

Sunrise, if you believe your mind and eyes, entered our sliver of being in Ashland at 7:38 AM. The sun will slip away and give us over to night at 5:02 PM. Mild winter weather still coddles us, 54 F now, at almost noon, with room for a few more degrees of warmth today. Syrupy white clouds mingle with gray, waiting to be stirred and spead over long blue legs.

“Photograph” by Def Leppard (1983) cropped into the morning mental music stream. My wife’s mother passed away Feb 18, 2018. A picture of the woman is in my office on top of a book club. Taken toward the end of her eighty-five years, intelligence and humor still rumbled in her blue eyes then, not so much in the last year of her life. Seeing the photograph brought out the song. So, why? Don’t know what the neurons are up to. I’m just the vessel.

Stay positive. Test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax and boosts when you can. Have coffee if you sway that way. I do, and I will. Cheers

Thursday’s Theme Music

A double-whammy brought this song into the stream this morning. First were dreams about photographs. Then, as I’m sitting at my desk thinking about the dreams, I see a photograph of my wife on the desk. Taken of her in Christmas, 1981, it was our first Christmas in Okinawa, Japan. A note on the back in her writing says, “I was sick as a dog.” She looks wonderful, though, in a bright purple short-sleeved top. Her hair is bobbed short, as she wore it for a number of years.

Between the dreams and memories, Ringo Starr’s old hit song, “Photograph” (1973) arose. About the only thing in common between the song’s lyrics and sentiment, the dream, and the photograph on the desk is that word, photograph. Everything else is quite different.

Just A Dream Snippet

Just a dream snippet remains from last night’s viewing. It felt like the dreams were on, but like the television running in the background while I was doing something else. Not much seemed noticed.

The one time that I remembering seeing the Dream Vee, I had butter on my arm. It was a twenty-year-old version of me. I laughed about that and was talking with someone else, showing them where I had butter on my forearm.

I know my dream age, because my image was lifted off a photograph that I saw not too long ago. My hair was dark and thick, but cut military short, and my mustache was dark and heavy. My wife and I had gone to a shopping mall. At her encouragement, I bought a pale yellow, short-sleeved shirt, the top that you pull over, with a three-button Henley packet. It became a favorite shirt for a few years.

While I was laughing about the butter and attempting in dream-muddled-confusion to understand how I’d come to have this thick, long streak of butter on my right forearm,  I realized how yellow it was. At that point, I heard, spread yellow light over your body.

That’s all that’s remembered.

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