26 June 2021
I just had a startling insight. A lot of my dreams –especially the ones that continue a plot line – are about moving through, or trying to find my way through, long, cramped, and busy places. The office I sometimes work when I’m asleep is pretty much a series of rooms, sort of like the space grew organically as they needed more space, that go deep into the building. My desk, and the stockroom, are near the back. There are at least two department stores I’m trying to pass through to find something. The college building (the one with the walkway around the seventh floor and the pool on the third) where I so often am trying to find my classroom, or trying to get to the caf. The art museum. The shopping mall grown organically – like Gibson’ Golden Gate Bridge – into a long winding space. The big house with the (usually abandoned) dorm off the side of it. And most especially the narrow street in some city I’m not familiar with, lined with small shops and vendor’s booths, from which I never know how to get back to the bus station. The shabby but spacious and airy third-floor walkup.
I’ve been to all these places time and time again; they’re all familiar. I’m usually looking for something; often somewhere to eat or a men’s room. Often I’m trying to get somewhere, though I never remember where or why.
Reading from the dream interpretation book you bought at the checkout counter for $2.99, it could be a birth canal. On the other hand, it could be the passage to death. Or, like the Pilgrim’s Progress, search for salvation. Or just an expression of being in a complicated world I’m not sure how-to navigate. Or the search for a bathroom. If I had a therapist it would be a good opening statement. I’ll give it a good ponder, but I’m pleased to have spotted the similarities.
News. Never a good idea. I just heard from my sister that Skip, our half-brother from my father's first marriage (all of which I found out about when I was 25) died last November. Born before the war, he must have been at least 80. He'd lost his wife a couple years ago, so I'm not astonished, but it's still sad.
Couple months ago we lost our last uncle -- Whit, my mother's older sister's widower -- to the virus. No one but my mother now left from that generation. I'm running out of relatives.
27 October 2020
Bang, bang, bang went the van.
Had another accident. I was trying to get out of the left lane, and someone in a van (who must have been in my blind spot, though I’d have sworn there was no-one there) hit me as he tried to get past me. Messed up that end of the bumper, and the fender too.
Just dropped the car off at a body shop. Dealt with the insurance, already got the check. (Five hundred less than their estimate – deductible. Car rental (Enterprise) delivered a rental vehicle to the shop. It’s part of the creeping future.
When we bought the ’16 Hyundai, I was surprised to find that there was no trunk keyhole. You have to hold down a button on your fob to open it – or, apparently, sit or move or think of something, as the trunk opens a lot by itself. Well, this car doesn’t even have an ignition lock. You just keep the fob in your pocket, and push a button on the dash. The shift lever is a dial. And whenever I stop, so does the engine. Might be a hybrid?
In any case, as usual, whenever I start to get a handle on the future, they move it on me. I’ve been reading about the future for nearly 60 years – and no one thought it would be this damn annoying.
Damn. It doesn't look as though The Great Trumpkin will die of the virus. It would have been so fitting. And It would have solved so many problems.
So many people wanted him dead, Facebook and Twitter posted rules that you couldn't wish for his death. I don't have an account on any of these platform. But Iso wanted him dead.
10 August 2020
Not to say that it’s been hot – but the other day we had medical appointments. They were very early, so I got Dunkies (that is to say, takeaway coffee) on the way down. What with one thing and another, we got back to the car something like two hours later. I checked the coffee – and it was still drinkably hot.
Ah, well. This place had good AC, and it’s only three months until the blasting heat begins to back off just a little.
Who'd have thought that tomorrow, would be so strange?
I used to know a nurse. She said once that if she knew the missiles were on their way,she would go stand on the roof of her building and wait to die. She could not stand the idea of trying to work the flood of shattered, dying patients.
Now that I live in Quincy, and the shipyard is long dead, I might survive the initial impacts. I'm not sure how I feel about that.
3 June 2020
I have excellent news.
Spangler is shipping.
You may remember that a couple years ago, to the horror of all right-thinking people, NECCO (New England Confectionery Company) abruptly closed and was sold off piecemeal. An absolute bidding frenzy was set off as people tried to acquire the dwindling supply of NECCO wafers, which date back to the 1840s, were popular during the Civil War (hence my title), and are fairly obviously the world’s best candy – possibly if you leave out Turkish Delight. (One lady called a wholesaler and offered to swap her car for their supply. They passed.)
I got my hands on several bags of the small rolls, enough to fill a biscuit tin and over, but that was it. As far as I knew, I would have to make maybe a hundred miniature rolls last thirty or forty years.
But in the business section of this morning’s paper was a small article. Spangler, the people who make Circus Peanuts, had bought the rights (and, I assume, the equipment) for NECCO wafers. It’s taken them a couple of years to set up the line, but they’re in production and they’re shipping.
They’ve even been smart enough not to mess with them. There are still cinnamon and clove wafers. I am so happy.
31 May 2020
So. COVID, COVID, COVID. LiveJournal in a time of plague. Frankly, I haven’t been writing anything because first I’d have to explain to the future about this entire pandemic.
However, we’re still talking about the 1918 pandemic, so I’m going to assume memory.
Per my title, I’ve been singing Life During Wartime under my breath since this started. I also note that shopping has become very Soviet – you stand in line for a while, and when you get into the store you check to see what they actually have. Though slowly some supplies are coming back – yesterday there were still no canned vegetables or cooking oil, but they did have a little TP.
None of us have killed any of the other, even after being in the apartment for, what, two months now. This is good. Let us hope that this is stable.
In any case, off to do laundry. Still here. Still breathing. Keep well.
One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin.
I did in fact woke from troubled dreams this morning. All that I remember is the dream I was having as I woke. I was talking to my father, who died when I was 30. You've been gone thirty-five years, I was explaining. We're the same age now.
We're the same age now.