Your cocktail sir,





2004-07-12 - 9:27 a.m.

Iím tired. I didnít get enough sleep last night, and the sleep that I did get was heavy and troubled. Not by my life, although maybe so, but rather by the weird and stupid dreams. Iíd actually like to know what Freud would have to say about them, driving a fictional mother in law home to New York City from Boston in a brand new Lexus with a bad transmission, discovering that my southern home has a secret attic apartment that was used in the Underground Railroad, and that black children were living up there, performing civil war reenactments, climbing up the ivy on a Tudor style home to reach my bedroom before the party guests see me wearing nothing but a chagrined expression, the list goes on. I donít normally remember my dreams in the morning. My subconscious and I donít communicate in that form. Well, actually, my subconscious and I arenít really on speaking terms. These werenít prophetic or strange, more like moments from a group of films, most likely showing on Lifetime at 2 in the afternoon for the housewife set. Forced, uninspired situations with sketchily drawn broad characters although like all dreams there was no ending to be had, happy or otherwise. Unless you count the Brooklyn Tunnel in the mother in law one. Other than the disturbing dreams, my weekend was pleasant, and in the nature of all things weekend, not long enough. On Friday I worked late, per usual and then went home to sleep. Saturday I worked, then went home and napped. Then had 40s and SNL. Bacardi Triple Black is sweet like Sprite and I really didnít get a buzz. Except for laughing. Sunday involved sleeping in, fixing my parents computer, and Northern Utahís largest fireworks display with symphonic pops concert. A week after the 4th, but a week before the 24th, which is a touch unusual. Itís almost always on the Sunday before Pioneer Day, the local holiday that subcedes the birth of our Nation by celebrating the birth of the heavenly nation. It was an interesting crowd. There were not nearly as many Old Navy 4th of July shirts in attendance. Mostly Tommy Hilfgure as he pretty much caught the exclusivity on the red white and blue. I saw a painfully thin and awkward boy in the tightest of wranglers buying his girlfriend (or sister) a light up rose. She may or may not have been Avril Lavigne, or most likely took in a picture of the Skater Boi album and said ďMake me look like thisĒ and then she practiced with eyeliner and sulking for hours. She secretly loved the glowing petals but acted all whatever. Because it was expected. They made me smile. The concert was nice, my sister played in it, the bassoon. I wanted to get a bit closer to take some photos, but the gate watcher for backstage wouldnít let me in. I said I had something to give my sister to which she replied, Well, youíll just have to give it to her after the concert then, wonít you. So I went to the VIP entrance and asked sweetly if I could just pop in for a minute. The nice woman there let me in. I took my photos and then exited. Through the backstage door, meeting the gate watchers eyes and thrilling that Iíd bested her. Itís all about the little victories.

previous - next

Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

- - 2007-07-11

Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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