Dennis Hollingsworth

Back in the Saddle

Woo Hoo.

I've figured it all out. (Or perhaps more acurately: I groped about under the hood of this laptop until something seemed to work for reasons that are still a mystery to me.) Anyway, I was Jones'n like crazy.

I'll harvest the news and mail; and load up a few blank blog entries to work on later. Usually, I go home and write letters to send later en bloc.

In the meantime,

I don't do this often, but let me tell you all of the series of dreams I awoke with the memory of this morning:

Dream 1:

There was a man who was running in a footrace. He stopped midway in the race to self induce vomitting, an effort to lighten the load. In the process, he poked out his larynx, rendering himself mute.

He didn't seem too unhappy about it, and as a matter of fact, he won the race by enlarging his airway.

There was a highway accident, cars tossed to the side of the road. I rushed over to render assistance hauling a man up onto the hood of his car with the help of a few other passers by. The man was messed up like the people I saw in the news recently, the Spanish train accident. Legs bare and bleeding, his skin blackened.

But he was smiling, he was happy. He seemed to feel lucky anyway.

There were two brujas in a house, they took on the form of squirrels. They scampered about their house the way squirrels would. The floor of the house was made of tamped earth, the arms of the women were dusty to their furry elbows.

Caganers, they excreted on the floor, dirt and straw lightly coating the feces in a modest pile in the center of the room.

It was magic poop.

I awoke to a fine morning, the sky filling with clouds that promise to ease the heat of a hot summer day in early July.