Ladies and gentlemen, cats and kittens, nuts and bolts, we come to the trudging end of another work week; and, as is my wont, I will be using the songs on this morning’s commute to determine the course of the weekend.
Hmm. What have we got here?
She’s Hearing Voices by Bloc Party
Day of the Eagle by Robin Trower
Rubberband Man by The Spinners
The Fear by Lily Allen
Everybody’s Everything by Santana
Outta Harm’s Way by King Khan and The Torturers
I Got Mine by The Black Keys
Well I certainly will be “Hearing Voices” as I’ll be going to the State Theater this weekend to see The Swell Season. But the rest of it?
My interpretive powers stink.
A lot of people’s powers of interpretation stink, though. Just yesterday morning, I was listening in as the woman in front of me described, in what can only be described as excruciating detail, a dream she had had the night before.
She and her seatmate agreed that any dream involving an ex-boyfriend and a storm that rips the roof off your house must mean that you should call him, that he’s sorry he cheated on you.
Me? I’m not so sure that’s what that means, but what do I know? Because while most people will insist that everyone dreams, I’ll have to take their word for it.
If I do dream, I rarely remember it.
Why dream when your waking life is so unbelievably fulfilling?
That doesn’t mean, however, that I never remember my dreams. In fact, I have a recurring dream; and I had it again yesterday.
You ready for this?
I dream that I’m already awake.
How’s that for a dream?
There I am: the alarm goes off, I get up, I scratch myself absentmindedly on the way to the bathroom, dragging the new day’s clothes with me. I wash/floss/brush various items, put on my make-up…
And then the alarm goes off again.
It goes off again!
For cryin’ out loud, I gotta get up again!
Dreaming is over-rated.
Winter mornings and pottery
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