Tiger

 Our last meeting, if you recall, there was talk of a tiger appearing in several dreams.  

The reasearch as to the meaning of said tiger/s in said dreams wasn't super expansive but this post did speak to me. I note that I haven't had any dreams (or even snippets) since that dream and so, certainly, tigers haven't made any further appearances.  

Still, I do intend to extend my reading on tigers, dreams, and things.  

 

summer sessions

 Or tigers. 

Every few weeks I have a snippet of a dream where I am in a room with a cat. The cat saunters about to and fro as cats are wont to do.  Surveilling the cat for several minutes, trying to figure out where it came from and more, where it is going---I take my eyes off it for a minute only to then see a tiger stroll toward me.  

The sight of the tiger not only renders me speechless but I also find that I am rooted to the spot I occupy.

The stately creature continues to advance.  

The end is always the same, I wake up.  

Tell Me A Story

I had a dream about my maternal grandmother. 

Except she wasn't in it.  

In the dream, I was at the two-flat she called home rescuing some kittens.  

Not her kittens, for she never had kittens (any pets for as long as I'd known her).

This was the most vivid dream I've had in a long while.  

The vivid dream compelled me to look up the address (of course I remember it).

According to the street view, the building is empty and boarded up, for sale—"investor's special!"

I know not what any of these means.  

I do know that now I want kittens that I absolutely cannot have.  

                                                                 

                                                                         Buttah (flashback) RIP

The End of October!?! November First

 

Something bit me.  This something either bit me twice or two somethings bit me in pretty much the 

same area; the back of my neck about 4 fingers from my right ear. 

I started this post some days ago (the 27th of October to be precise) and have since decided to take the post in a different direction while also deciding to leave the beginning. I won't leave you hanging thought, the bites on my neck are completely healed. Suffice to say, at the time the wounds were troubling enough to warrant mention, let alone a blog post.  

I had  a dream about one of my maternal aunts the other night.  She was the third oldest of my mom's 5 female siblings during my childhood / life.  Her death preceded my mother's by at least a decade but she was very prevalent in our lives during her life.  My mom was one of her primary caregivers during her decline; of all my cousins I am closet to her daughters.  

In the dream my aunt was alive in my present day but as if she hadn't aged since the 80s. The imagery and conversations were so jarring that I have worked to push the little bits that I did remember out of my mind. With the exception a singular event; the fish fry. Her fish fries were events of family lore. These memories I hold dear and don't mind their creeping into even creepy dreams.   

Snippet

A Neighbor's Tree 

A dream:  anxiety rising to the point of overflowing, looking for the milk. It isn't in any of the usual places so I began looking in some rather unusual places. Finally relief and then, immediate confusion. Why is there a gallon of milk in a dresser drawer? 

And then I am awake. 

Are you watching the Olympics? Loving it? Not? Somewhere in between? 

More Microblog Offerings

Woke Up Weak

We (me and various members of my extended family--even those who have died) are gathered in what looked like a big treehouse. We are there for a nephew’s 6th birthday party. As folks are getting their party hats on, so to speak, the smell of frying fish and chicken wafts throughout.  

Someone yells that we needed ...something. I hop to volunteer to go get the something. Cinnamon and I get into an uncle’s Chevy Impala. There aren’t any parking spaces, so I double, jump out and ..   SHIT!  

Engine running, door locked, Cinnamon inside.  

Panic explodes on the inside of my head.

I try to figure out a way inside the car. Thankfully there was no traffic in fact, no one was on the street. At. All. Still, my head is spinning with what could happen. Running car. Dog inside. Folks at the party waiting for me (and whatever it is I went to get). All the doors are locked, Futility pushes me to try them anyway.

Sweet sassy molasses, the passenger side door isn’t locked. I swing it open, reach across the seats to turn off the car and grab the keys out of the ignition. As I stand, three women with beehive hairdos approach and proceed to enter the car. Appearing mildly miffed by the presence of the dog slows but doesn't stop them. They are chattering away. 

I am temporarily stunned into silence but do find voice enough to ask what

they are doing. Again, miffed that I seem so dense; as it was clear to them I was the ride arranged by the planners of whatever event they were attending. I stumbled out an explanation that I was not, in fact, their ride and they had to get out of the car. I was still frantic to get back to pick up . . . whatever it was I went to pick up for the party and get back before too much longer.

The ladies with the air in their hair start to argue or negotiate when 

Cinnamon BARKS and I wake up.  

With a headache.

First dream of 2016.

#MicroBlogMonday Go check out Mel's place for more MicroMonday entries.

Dream Driving

Once we were lovers, but somehow things have changed, now we're just lonely people, trying to forget each other's names.

For many days leading in and for a few after my birthday, I awoke with this song creeping out of the corners of my mind. Birthdays, like New Year's bring about the thoughts, a look through the rear view as well as ahead.

And thoughts often revolve around relationships--past, present, and future--for relationships are life.

All the past relationships, intimate and otherwise, hold some fond memories--more hurt--but some pockets of pleasure, as well. It is the pleasures on which I choose to dwell. There is no present intimate relationship, and to be honest, I don't see such an event on the road ahead. But, just because I don't see it doesn't mean IT isn't out there waiting for me to drive through. I keep the trunk stocked, just in case.

I get along pretty well with my son and daughter. I love them, of course. But, I like them a bunch. And they seem to like me which works out really well. And while it is stress filled having the three of us (plus two cats and a 55 pound dog) under the same roof, everyone is respectful and . . well, humor wins the day--most days. Relationships with other family and friends are continual works in progress. I work to nurture all my relationships. Still, every now and again, even with extreme care, relationships fade. . .

. . . and then there is me, learning to embrace the skin I'm in, to appreciate the square peg-nacity that I bring to the round party, to drive my lane, at my own speed, in my own vehicle--nurturing the relationship with my own true self, for that . . . well, is life.

And sometimes at night I think I hear you calling my name, Mmm, mmm, mmm, these dreams, they keep me going these days*

*These Dreams written by Jim Croce.

#MicroBlogMonday  

Dream A Little Dream

She was in white; turban, tunic, and long-ish skirt. The sofa upon which I was laying was also white. Not leather, for which part of me was grateful . . . I think.

I don't know why the white or the turban, for that matter. I don't know why I was there laying upon the white (not leather) sofa with her hovering over me blinding me with her incredibly white teeth or why I only remember this part of the dream . . .

. . . (she) is my best friend from high school. She was also my first crush, my twice married, multiple child having, grandmother thrice over . . she was saying (over and over) that she thinks she'd like to "try" being with a woman and would I be "down" for that.

Blinding. White. Teeth (and turban, tunic, long-ish skirt--not to mention, sofa). Well, shit.

She went on to babble about taking time to work up the nerve to ask me here (after we hadn't spoken in years) to say these things to me . . . that I was attractive (enough) and "safe" since I had already come out as a lesbian. She didn't want to approach any other friend or worse, a stranger. . . she couldn't risk her husband (or kids or grandkids) finding out about . . . anything.

She was sure. She wasn't leaving her life. She didn't want to date. She just wanted . . .

a taste.

Before she was done with her spiel and before I could respond I found myself being hustled out the back door as her husband was charging into the front, through the rooms, into the kitchen. Rooted to my place on the porch I heard pieces of an argument, not related to our conversation . . . well, her monologue. The crack which sounded like a fist connecting with a jaw . . .

woke. me. up.

Another Week Twelve Days

Many evenings I sit with my fingers poised over the keyboard, mind full of words, thoughts, impressions . . . news to share, to spill. And many evenings I log off, shut everything down, frustrated by the inability to quiet my mind enough to put forth a coherent thought.

This evening isn't much different but I shall try, hard(er) for I don't know when this opportunity will arise again, being home alone and all is quiet. The animals all fed are now all sacked out; Diamond at my feet and Pete and Buttah in their respective favorite sack out places. But, my mind is racing, partly because my body is wanting to race to catch J. Beal's in her role as a high ranking cop in The Chicago Code . While I enjoy (understatement) watchig the lovely Jennifer I'm not a huge fan of the show. Still, I hope it survives the first season for two reasons: 1. well, Jennifer and 2. Michael may get a third chance to audition and isn't there something about the third time being charming? So, bring on season two.

Mention of the television show reminds me of the very early morning, "I should be up getting ready to walk" dream. . . Goren and Eames of L & O: Criminal Intent were featured prominently. While reconciling our (the business) bank accounts a discrepancy was discovered. The discrepancy (a $2.78 shortfall) involved a return made by Eames. Goren stuck his two cents in and the next thing I knew, a task force had been formed. Needless to say, I overslept and was unable to get out for my 2 mile, before work, walk. Those steps however, were made up over the course of the day. The goal: minimum10,000 a day. Today's total: 13,998.

Mom called, so I missed the Code. Perhaps I'll find time (energy and all that whizz) to catch it (and other misses) sometime over the next several (maybe 12 or so) days.

A Dream (partial)

This has not been one of my better weeks. Between the stress of the work situation, the cold I try to rationalize away, and the eczema flare-up (my neck is raw--aaarrgggh) lopped atop my already wonky sleep pattern, well, let's just say, tired, cranky, somewhat un-focused has been the order of the days.

Additionally, there have been dreams. Or rather, snippets of dreams. Or more accurately, I'm only remembering the snippets of some of the dreams. As in:

My daughter was nine or ten and apparently, my only child. We were living in a house that looked very much like the rental my family lived at one point during my own childhood.

It was a sunny day, and daughter yelled that she was going outside to play and taking her bike. I heard her struggle to pull the bike from a front closet, and then the screen door slam shut. Making my way to the front to latch the door, annoyed by the sight of her toddler bike sitting in the middle of the hall--a constant reminder that she's older and that bike should be given away, as it is taking up room we don't have--I hear noises on the porch.

Curious, but a bit alarmed, I rush to latch the screen door. The man with two small children, gender indeterminate, appear to be deciding who should knock--when they realize, as one, that knocking isn't necessary.

Addressing the man, I ask, "may I help you?" He begins to talk while at the same time, reaching for the door. Though re-latched, he begins to pull on the door. I ask them all to please leave my porch. The children sit down while the man continues to pull on the door. I know it will give soon, so I yell, "PLEASE LEAVE or I'll call the police", as I move to close the wooden door.

In the next moment, the man was inside the house pleading, "please, let's just have some fun." The children remained seated on the porch. I ask the man again to please leave. He responded to my request by beginning to dance. Well, not dancing so much as . . . performing, or rather, exercising.

Ala, Hip-Hop Abs.

Then, I'm awake with a cat (the orange one) on my chest.

Let's Hear It For The Boys

My Our boys are not outside cats. And as they live theirs lives indoors, they very much welcome the warmer weather bringing open windows. As you know, they both adore sitting upon the sill, soaking up the sun.

Of the two, Buttah is more interested in investigating the outside, apparently still remembering is outside romps. He scampers to either door at nearly every entry or exit by any of the human occupants. We don't use the back door all that often, but when we, or rather I do, I must be extra vigilant toward keeping him away as the back door gains him instant access to the world as access through the court-yard out back. He got by me once, be he wasn't swift enough to escape my clasp.

Some nights ago I dreamt that he had escaped via the back door. He was out and down the steps in a flash, which further proves that it was a dream. Buttah is . . . not quick. I was shaken for several minutes as he'd gotten out of sight. I called and called into the open air. There wasn't any sign of him or any tingle of his jingling tags.

Horrified, I scrambled down the stairs, scanning the area searching for a ball of orange. Growing more and more anxious as the seconds turned into minutes which felt like hours, I began to think about which pic of him would be best to post on a "LOST" poster. My heart begins to race as I see . . . orange. Around the corner ambles a ball of orange fur, excited but not wanting to scare him away, I softly call him toward me. Closer and closer and then I see, it isn't Buttah. It is another orange cat which from a distance resembles my our boy. This fella appears friendly enough and he continues to advance toward me. I wait so that I can check him for tags, wondering if I should come inside to grab any one of 3 carriers. Deciding against leaving, the alien orange is nearly at my feet.

Just as I bend to make friends with him, out from the shadows I hadn't realized existed popped Buttah, mewling his trademark rolling, nasally purrs. He looks up as if to say, "look what I found, can we keep him?"

At which point I wake up, get up to re-check the doors, windows, and the number of cats in the apartment. Ahhh, only two. . . both looking to barrel through the bedroom door clamoring for breakfast in just another hour. Buttah follows me back to bed, I let him hang with me for that next hour.

The cat I didn't want has become the cat I can't imagine a day without.

Imagine

Imagine there wasn’t a history between you and me. Imagine we were not connected by years of disconnectedness. Imagine we were strangers except for the shared DNA. Imagine.

Do you imagine we could have come together after 50 years of our own separate lives with no memory of a history of birth, laughter mingled with tears, hurts, and haunts?

Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in a busy restaurant, straining to hear each other’s silences. Imagine you wanting coffee and me not knowing coffee was one of your obsessions.

Do you imagine we’d stumble for the words to say? Would you be interested to hear about all or only some of the past 50 years? Do you imagine you’d share your tales of travels, where the world and life took you since my conception? Would you ask about my mom? Imagine there’d be pictures?

Imagine neither of us coming to this pre-arranged meeting alone, afraid of what we’d find or rather, what we wouldn’t. Sharing no previous history we didn’t have hope nor despair on which to hang our hats. You meet my daughter, I meet your son. We’re polite as are they. Imagine the look in their eyes when they realize they’re nearly the same age.

Do you imagine we’d work through the awkwardness? Would we find enough common ground on which to tread? Would we progress beyond talking about the weather or the economy? Imagine you’d tell me in 100 words or less how, why you found me? Imagine it would be more?

Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in this busy restaurant, you nearly shouting about the clanking and clattering china, that you were my dad and how you so very much wish you’d thought to do this sooner, before you got sick.

Do you imagine I’d come away from this meeting with love, or . . ?

Imagine there wasn't a history between you and me, imagine.

These Dreams

Easing into my Sunday morning while sipping java, reading blogs, news, and responding to emails from my pal, I was listening to my streaming customized Sunday morning mix. Most of the tunes were familiar, if not lyrically certainly harmonically. Tunes lending themselves to humming.

Quiet time.

Suddenly, I heard something that just seared through me.

I'd heard it before, I must have because I'd given it a thumbs up. But, I don't know that I'd heard it before Sunday.

. . . and since Sunday morning, I can't stop dreaming.

Once we were lovers

One night there were several dreams. Snippets, not very lucid. Not at all linear.

What came between us?

One night there were Planes. Trains. Automobiles. And ships? Seriously?

and sometimes at night I think I hear you calling me name

She was there. But, so too were a few of my female friends. Sometimes we were all talking, laughing. Other times we were . . . well, not. Not like an orgy. Each separate. Distinct. An event. We were always caught. We were always chagrined. We always cried and then we had wine.

Clearly, I'm lonely. But, it isn't present daily. I'm sad, but that too is fleeting. Most days I'm ok and parts of some days, I'm happy, cheerful, even. Still, I am missing. You know, the fall out of a loverly pairing is . . . well, there are songs that say it well.

For now,

. . .these dreams, they keep me going these days.


Jim Croce, These Dreams

Take This Dream

My dad is a mystery to me. I know his name, can still envision his face (provided he hasn’t changed too much in 15 or so years), and feel like I’d be able to recognize his voice were he to speak to me today. However, I’m at a total loss to relate any of his favorite foods, whether or not he’s into comedies or dramas, or even if he watches movies (or television) at all. I don’t have any inkling as to what even constitutes a typical day for him. I’m not a part of his life, nor he mine.

Imagine my shock and awe to find him, his dog (I don’t even know if he really HAS a dog), and his truck starring in my most recent remembered dream.

The scene opens somewhere in the middle, as usual. I’m on a street in the neighborhood I lived with my brothers and mother when I was about 15. My dad and mom had been separated / divorced for 7 or 8 years by that point. Though he was still in my life, it was sparse and growing more so with each passing day. So, my dream opens with me on this street, in my current adult incarnation. I have Diamond. No one else from my current life is visible.

I’m walking Diamond down this street and we meet my dad and his dog, a greyhound puppy of indeterminate gender. Diamond goes nuts over this dog, she won’t back off from sniffing the dog’s butt, making the younger pup quite nervous, which makes my dad nervous. Yet, he never says a word. The dog sniffing and related dance goes on for some minutes when, inexplicably dad reaches into his pocket and hands me keys and points to a truck, his truck, I surmise.

In the midst of sniffing, dancing, yapping dogs, he motions to the truck, picks up the greyhound, turns tail and breaks into a full out run. A perplexed Diamond barks louder, then whimpers as they disappear from view. She looks up at me and I shrug. I grab her up and head for the truck. It is the truck from my youth. A 1965 or ’66 green GMC pick-up. I’m curious and excited. I get in and crank ‘er up. Vrrrroooooom. I drive around a couple of blocks, turn another corner and plop, find myself smack dab in the middle of a muddy field. Well, shit.

Every effort to extricate the truck from the mud fails miserably. I grow increasingly nervous. I look across the field to see another truck, full of people of indeterminate gender having some sort of party, or something and several start to make their way toward me, Diamond, and the truck.

As they draw nearer, my brain snaps me awake. I look at the clock-radio and realize that the song I thought was playing as part of the dream was not, or was but has leaked over to my conscious life.

Keys, Mice, and a Possum

I may have mentioned a time or two that I don't dream often. Well, it is probably more accurate to say that I don't remember my dreams often. Point is, more often than not, I sleep. I wake up. Whatever happened in-between is lost, forever.

Tuesday night / Wednesday morning was one of those rare occasions where I dreamt and I remembered.

Open scene:

Mom and I were in a library. I don't know why, my mom and I have not ever been in a library together.

Anyway...we were in a library, a very large library. We were in the children's section so identified by titles and decoration.

We seemed to be on a hunt of some sort, as mom had me going to and fro (while she sat) retrieving various items from various areas of this very large library. I found it odd that we were
1. in a library
2. none of the items being retrieved were books
3. we seemed to be the only people in the library

Whenever I questioned what we were doing she would reply, "it must be done."

Several times I had to go through a door to access a particular area. All the doors were locked and required special keys. Mom held the keys. Whenever I reached a locked door I had to return to get the keys.

Many, many trips and items later, we were done. We were leaving the children's area of the library with a wagon-load of items. (Not clear what the items were.) Mom stopped before we reached the final exit, turned and asked, "where are the keys?"

I'd left the keys...somewhere.

She implored me to go back and get them, insisting that they were too hard to replace, too expensive, too precious...I don't know what all, but back I trudged to retrieve the keys.

Once I reach an area where I thought I'd left them, I see a table I hadn't seen before and a mound of what looked like the bundle of keys. I move closer to the table and the closer I got, the more I see the mound isn't keys, but still not clear what.

I reach the table, upset that the keys are not there, but curious about this mound, which is something covered with a silvery-gray blanket. I make a move to look underneath the blanket.

Possum. Dead I think.

I don't study it too long, distracted by scurrying mice and my blood curdling scream.

3:30 a.m. awake for the duration.

End Scene.

In addition to the dream memory, the other aberration is my sleep pattern. Where before, months ago (and for years) I had trouble getting to sleep. Now, I fall asleep pretty much minutes after hitting the hay, shortly after 10 p.m. most nights. And sleep quite soundly, for about two hours, dream or no dream. I don't (usually) have too much trouble going back to sleep, but then within an hour or so, I'm awake again.

At one time, the cats were impacting my sleep. But that hasn't been the case (though, they do still start the "feed me" banging at 4ish but since they can't get in the room I'm now conditioned to largely ignore all but the most obnoxious of their noises) for a little bit now.

For a few weeks there I'd been able to get up at 5, pert and perky enough to stretch, exercise, even go out for a short ride, before work. Now, over the last week or so, what with the broken sleep, I'm lucky to lumber out of bed by six.

I'm having to get my exercise in during the course of the day and / or after work, which is fine, mostly, I guess. But I felt better when I did something before work. Plus, if I did something before work, during the day AND after, more exercise, better weight loss results.

I'm not sure if it's one thing or several roaming around my mind working to upset my pattern, whatever it is though, I have to find a way back to the previous patter as IT seemed much more agreeable to my over all well-being.

And I haven't a clue as to what that dream meant.

Dreams

I don’t have many dreams or rather I hadn't had many. i seem to be having them more, or rather, remember them more. The memories, the dreams of late, anyway, are not beginning, middle and end events. I'm remembering snippets only--those leading to wakefulness.

A couple of weeks ago I was driving a bus. Not a school or even a city bus, but a tour bus, a tour bus without tourists.

I was handling the very large vehicle with relative ease until *thwack* something smacked the bus. I don’t know what it was, but there wasn’t time to ponder the what, for the smack down had made me lose control. In fact, the impact of whatever it was had thrown be about the bus. I reached my arms out, trying to grab hold of the steering wheel from several rows back.


I woke just as the bus was careening over the side of a bridge.


A couple of days later the dream was about the cats and a mouse. They caught a mouse, but instead of the images being live action, they were animated, “Tom & Jerry” inspired animation to be precise. They were having a grand old time with the mouse. My role was that of the human you see only from the knees down. I woke to legs chasing the trio down a flight of stairs.


A couple of days ago the dream was about my bedroom light switch. Inexplicably it had fallen from the wall. Instead of moving to repair it, I fussed over how to get the lights off (apparently glossing over the fact that if the switch were repaired . . . voila). I woke at the height of frustration at not being able to extinguish the overhead lighting.


I know folks believe that dreams mean something, heck, they probably do, in fact I'm pretty sure they mean something if not the dreams themselves, certainly the fact that I'm more active in that arena lately.

Still, I haven’t given either of these too much thought, well, except for the cats and mouse one. I’ve thought about that a lot. Not about what it means but rather, why my feet were wearing such ugly house slippers, especially considering I don't wear house slippers.

Good Night.

Predictable

Fade In:
The apartment isn’t shut down for the night yet at just a shade beyond 10 p.m. The alarm is armed but the computer is still up and a lamp continues to burn. Stretched out on the bed/sofa, sipping on daughter’s version of a Pena Colada, waiting for Neta to call, I tune in Logo’s sanitized version of QAF.

Then I'm out.

The next conscious moment comes at 2:30 a.m. I’m not sure what woke me, probably the thumpa thumpa of the QAF re-run being broadcast at that time. I do a walk-thru, making sure all is well, use the bathroom and shut down the computer. I realize I’d not spoken to Neta, so I call.

Neta: Hey baby, what are you doing up?
Me: Not up, really. I slept and something woke me up.
Neta: Well, by the time it slowed down enough for me to call you, it was late and I didn’t want to wake you.
Me: Yeah, I know. I figured. I just wanted to call to say hey. And I love you, and goodnight.
Neta: Goodnight baby. I’ll call you in the morning.

I settle down to sleep a bit more. It won’t come, at least not until nearly 4 and even then it was fitful. The remnants of a dream niggled at my edges.

Neta, D and I were in a house. Not the condo, not Neta’s house. It was some other place. For some reason I’m up very early re-decorating. I’m moving a narrow baker’s rack type shelving full of pots and pans. For some reason I don’t remove the pans. I carry the laden shelving to some type of pantry without dropping a thing. Miraculous, I’m thinking, when my attention is diverted to a hole in a wall. The hole looks like an opening for the beginnings of a small window.
Curious, I look through. I see a lump. Suddenly the lump begins to lumber toward the opening, toward me. I don’t shriek until the lumbering lump takes a leap. I see that it is a HUGE striped tabby. I mean HUGE. Huge, but not like a real cat. This cat was a cartoon-y, puppet-like cat. The fur was felt. The eyes like buttons. But it was HUGE. And it moved. Slow and then fast. Only the head fit through the opening I realized after I’d backed into the shelving, crashing all the pots and pans. Neta appeared at the doorway to the pantry with a WHAT THE FUCK look on her face.

I got up, showered and such, fixed a cup of coffee, ate a watermelon slice and got dressed. D got up shortly after and when she was ready, we left.

D nearly spit out her iced coffee when I told her the dream on our way to the train.

Any Other Day

It was a routine day, a day not so routine as to render it mundane, but routine enough so as to not set it apart in any way. This could have been any day. Following work on this any day of a mountain of routine, I head home in the usual way.

Thirty minutes of non-events later I arrive at my block. There are trucks and service vans everywhere.

I’m mildly curious as they activity seems centered on my building, but there wasn’t any work scheduled. The closer I get the more I’m able to see that yes, all the coming and going is indeed our building. I get to the lobby to see that the tile has been busted up. Moving through the outer lobby, towards the inner-lobby and I can that the carpet has been ripped apart. I climb the two flights to my unit door to find that my hardwood floors in 4 rooms and the tile in the other 2 were all busted, ripped, buffed and such. What tha... Who ordered this? Who’s paying for it? Who decided it to be done all at once, inside and out? I didn’t see any other owners around. My daughter is gone. And WHERE ARE D-dog and Pete the Cat?!?

Just as I am about to grab somebody, any body to get to the bottom of whomever or whatever is behind all this work, debris and confusion, I awake.

A dream. So rare these are. So real this was. I got up, checked the locks and the alarm, got a drink of water and tried to go back to sleep. I didn't sleep, I couldn't get the dream to leave my side.

The actual day that followed was as full of routine as the day in the dream. The actual day didn't include any ripping,busting or buffing of floors or anything else. Darn.

Late

How is it? Why is it? That whenever you are running late, the entire world conspires to keep you that way? School children moving much more slowly than usual, construction zones blocking traffic, bus drivers by-passing your stop, making you walk an extra four blocks.

I overslept this morning. This is a concept quite alien to me. I still however, might have made it to work on time-had it not been for the children, construction and bus by-pass.

Question is, why?

I’m blaming it on frogs.

No, there weren’t frogs in my bed. There were frogs in my head.

In my dream, my bike had gone missing. I searched high and low to no avail. I received a message from an anonymous source, telling me take my search to a neighborhood previously unknown to me.

In this neighborhood, I found a field which was populated by dozens of frogs. There was my bike, sitting, waiting for me to save her, just beyond the frogs. EEKS.

Frogs give me the freaks. I haven’t seen one up-close and personal since I was a kid and my brothers used to bring them home to keep as pets. We lived in the city, concrete jungle. Not the ideal breeding ground for frogs. I suspect they were stealing them from pet stores, but I have no proof. I have since, avoided meeting frogs face-to-face. I leave them, they leave me, alone.

Back to the dream, I muster up my gumption, roll-up my pants and press on to retrieve my beloved bike. I'm tip-toeing into the field. Carefully making my way towards Bella.

I don’t know if I ever did get to save Bella.

I woke up, LATE having lost the rest of the dream along the way.