 |
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
||
 |
 |
|
||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
Sometimes You Just Gotta Have Popcorn for SupperMarch 10, 2009 So I did. Last night. I dressed it as usual, with nutritional yeast, tamari, and butter. Yum. I had one hand wrapped around a red pencil -- I'm working on a big, somewhat messy book about the key players in the Bauhaus group -- while the other dipped periodically into the popcorn bowl. Every so often I tossed a big handful onto the floor for Travvy. He likes popcorn as much as Rhodry did. The popcorn, however, may have been at least partially responsible for the dream I had. Waking up to the sound of a loud voice at the foot of my bed was another possibly contributing factor: I fell asleep with the radio on. I rarely remember my dreams, or have any recollection that I dreamed at all, and this one was even more unusual in that it had flashes of narrative coherence -- most of which I've now forgotten, of course, but when I got up feeding and going for a walk with the Travster took precedence (as usual) over waking Morgana or scribbling in a notebook. So the dream involved a former pasture mate of Allie's, Castor (not his real name), and a former barnmate of mine, Billie (not her real name either). In the dream Castor still belonged to Billie, which he doesn't in real life and hasn't for years. I had committed myself to riding Castor to a event of some kind so Billie could show him. The show was being held in the next town over from the one I grew up in. There was some good reason why Billie couldn't do this herself, but I can't remember what it was. Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise. I wasn't sure where Castor was stabled, but I assumed it was a barn where I knew people and people knew me. I was planning to show up, explain the situation, and ride off. Here there's a gap in the story -- maybe this is where I woke up, heard the loud voice, and fumbled for the boom box's remote. Next thing I was studying a two-page boarding contract. This was where Castor was. All I knew about the place was that it was big and fancy, and that there was no way I could walk in, explain what I was doing, and be allowed to tack Castor up and ride off to the show. At the bottom of the second page was a form with lines for name, address, and other vital information. The name at the top of the form -- which I understood was that of the facility's owner -- was Blum. The first name also began with B and was a man's name: Brian? Can't remember, but Blum was definitely the surname. Damned if I know what was going on, but I bet it has something to do with thwarted plans and expectations, and maybe the lack of right connections. It must have been the popcorn. Or maybe I shouldn't have had that third beer.
|
|
|||
|
||||
|
||||
|
||||
 |
|
|||
 |
|
|||
Home - Writing - Editing - About Susanna - Bloggery - Articles - Poems - Contact Copyright ©
Susanna J. Sturgis. All rights reserved. |
||||