Dreamland

Dreaming is pretty big with me. Last night I drifted in and out of several scenarios. Since the time change I haven't changed my bedside clock so I wake up several times during the night, go back to sleep, per chance to dream and thus my dreams change.

Here's how part of my night played out -

It was drifty and foggy on a ledge and Doris my deceased mother-in-law (who I always loved) and I were stock-piling clothing. We have been to several stores or somewhere (it seemed like Mervyns?) to buy some unknown mid-size clothing for some unknown reason. The feeling was we needed a lot, like for a hurricane or a tornado that was coming. We rushed to carefully fold and stack them with their tags still on and place them in a wooden cabinet or piece of furniture like an armoire. This piece of furniture was floating out on the foggy ledge. .... , okay, wake up to compute the time.

Now I'm dressed in a off-grey, dusty clown suit with grey, gloomy clown make-up with small bowler hat like a man clown. I'm on a cloudy, dusty, grey small stage with poor lighting. I'm shuffling my feet to some off-stage music and softly singing "I'm Mr. Cellophane" from the movie "Chicago". (this is done by the sad husband of Renee Zelweger in the movie) I'm not a good singer but I can clearly hear the tune of "I tell ya, Cellophane, I'm Mr. Cellophane, should have been my name, Mr. Cellophane, 'cause you can look right through me, walk right by me, And never know I'm there!" (it's done very slow and melancholy) Of course there is nobody in the old shabby theater. ...., okay, wake up to compute the time.

Now, new place don't know where and Steve Tate (Frank's cousin and our friend) and I are trying pretty franticly to take our blood sugar. I'm diabetic but he is not. We try over and over to prick our fingers. The lancets are no good or the meters do not register to get a drop of blood. People are looking over our shoulder and waiting impatiently. A crowd is growing, I'm sweating. Lots of pressure. The little lancets are piling up at our feet, my fingers hurt from all the pricking. I feel like B. B. King.

...., okay, wake up it's 7:25 a.m. on the clock, no that's wrong, 6:25 a.m. and I'm going to have to hustle be on time to work in Arlington.

Yikes, M.C.