Sorry, but I’m not even reading political news right now, let alone commenting on it.
Had an interesting dream sometime in the early hours this morning. Had to be between 4:00a, when I iced the poison ivy on my neck and face, and 7:00a. In it Mike and I had moved into a very large, old gothic type mansion. It had more rooms than Carter has little liver pills. All the bathrooms were horrid and nigh unusable and the rest of the rooms were on the strange to outright frightening side… One I wandered into (while looking for my camera to shoot the paper mill explosion about half a mile away!) had dolls of every kind; some hanging on the walls, some in bins. As I walked close to them, they’d come alive and try to grab me.
Another room looked like the boiler room of a ship, which is where I met a ghost girl. There were other rooms, hallways, all dark and dank and not fit for human life.
Oh, and I saw my Mom. SAW her. You know how it gets harder to picture someone the longer they’ve been gone? I saw her as if she were really standing in front of me. Jumped at her, hugged her hard and held on as she talked and floated me around the house…
Tonie came over for some reason but we did not communicate at all (gee, wonder where that came from?), though she did speak with Mike… and I finally found the camera.
It took some doing, but I finally ran to the front of the property to photograph the mill fire in the distance behind the house…. Only, everything I picked up wasn’t the camera! Binoculars, sunglasses… I’d somehow lost the dang camera again. Other people started showing up, strangers, to watch the fire on the massive front lawn… and I awoke.
I hate dreams like that because though I know it probably stemmed from either the spaghetti or the ice cube, it must mean something. Mustn’t it? And if so, it can’t be anything good, right?