Call Me

Call me unhinged.  I had a dream last night that SFShiba was demonstrating his new craft, the production of art pieces involving computerized clothesline-type things that connected in magical ways and were meant to demonstrate the progression of paranoid schizophrenia.  The key parts kept wanting to separate, but he held them together.  They looked like a Russian-doll version of canned peas, each supposed to fit inside the others.

I rarely dream so vividly, and I haven’t dreamed of SFShiba in years, if ever.  I woke up thinking, yes, Linda, you did cyber-stalk him.  Then I thought of what that means and decided it’s meaningless since anybody can cyber-stalk anybody and if they tried it with me they would find out where I live and how much my house is worth, but since I haven’t done any meaningful work since about 1980, the rest would be at maximum repetitive.  I wish the big guy would pay attention to me now, because I want him to account for the loneliness of Hiro, who still paces slowly around his cage like an elderly tiger.  Inside outside around the bed outside inside around the bed.

What brought the dream immediately to mind as I woke up was the little boys who populated the end of it, and the fact that right before I went to sleep Willy yelled at me that he had to get up in the morning and do all the work and so no he wouldn’t talk for five minutes.  The little boys at the end were executing drum riffs so accomplished that I thought surely we’d walked into some kind of school for little musical-genius boys.  The riffs were on the famous (not to use the word iconic) drum riff Phil Collins used in “In the Air Tonight,” and that the unhinged Mike Tyson replicated in the movie Hangover.

The reason we were in that place was that I had screwed up some plane reservations, and had booked us on a flight that would get us to our destination three and a half hours after we were supposed to be there.  The event was a funeral.  The second husband of an old friend of mine died last night, the second she lost to prostate cancer.  At least this one was over 70.  The first one was only 50.

Late to the funeral.  Little drummer boys.  Around the bed.  Outside.  SFShiba demonstrating paranoid schizophrenia with interlocking cans of peas.  Inside, around the bed.  Curl up in the bed.  Outside, inside, around the bed.

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