Let's Sleep Till Spring Gets Here

It's a bad news and good news story. The bad news is it's Christmas Eve, with lots of bad winter weather threatening our happiness for the foreseeable future. The good news is I have a plan to deal with it. With safe, wonderful, beautiful sleep being the answer.

Recently I've come into an abundance of time, with official retirement. So obviously I have the inside track. But even if you're not retired, you can do your part to get rid of winter ... quicker. Yes, I'm the first to admit it, we can't get rid of winter just like that. But if each of us does our little part -- none shirking -- we can overcome this bastard winter weather much more speedily.

Of course winter weather is not an enemy to everyone. To those folks, I lift my thumb to my nose and make a rude noise. Including guys who plow the roads, folks who run ski resorts, winter tire dealers, snow removers, etc. It's people like you that make things harder for people like me, who'd just as soon winter didn't even happen. If it were in my power, yes, I would obliterate winter, damning the consequences. If it meant the calendar was screwed up, the atmosphere were half lost to outer space, the ice caps were transformed into a few trays of ice in a museum, I'd do it. Remember a few years back, when I proposed mirrors in space to increase global warming -- strictly for comfort's sake? It didn't go anywhere because I'm just a guy, with no connections to speak of. I have indeed met politicians, some of the strongest men (and a woman or two) in the world, but they were more or less only interested in me as a hand to shake so they could claim to care about the average joe. They exploited me.

Today's idea to get rid of winter -- or drastically curtail its reach -- doesn't have anything to do with mirrors or species-decimation. It's more a scheme of individual initiative, involving something each of us already does, SLEEP. It's an indisputable, provable phenomenon that sleep speeds up time. I've said it since I was a kid. When we were learning about the Lincoln-Douglas debates, and later the Civil War, I not only held forth on the subject of Sleep and Time, but demonstrated it (many teachers had disputed it) by sleeping through everyone else's presentations. "It's disruptive," the teacher told my parents, but Mom and Dad were happy I took the initiative to stand up -- or sit down -- for my beliefs. I put my head on the desk, dosed off, and when I woke up a minute or so later, the class was over. True story. The most regrettable consequence is I'm a complete moron when Jeopardy's on.

That's my plan to get rid of winter. We sleep through it as much as we can. Hey, if you have an argument about it, take it up with the bears. The bears know! They crawl into their cave, plug in an electric blanket, and sleep. The cubs are nestled in their little cribs, each with a nipple and a 20 gallon bottle of milk, and the parents doze off. The only time they wake up, as I understand it, is every other week for a few minutes to change the babies, then back to dreamland. Before they know it -- and the perception bears have of time has never been sufficiently explained -- it's 20 minutes later and winter's over.

As soon as I get done writing this -- and I'm typing so fast, it'll only take another 3 minutes tops -- I'm headed straight to bed. And I don't plan to wake up until next week at this time. Just to check my Super XL Adult Briefs and take care of any hygienic needs there might be, maybe eat some Chex Mix and have some eggnog, and I'll be back to sleep. Oh yeah, and the dog. Probably change her diaper, take her out, refill her bowls, and wish her a Happy Rest-of-Winter till next we meet.

For this project I actually bought one of those super thermal sleeping bags. The kind that has so much innate heat you'd swear it was a living creature. They're awesome. You crawl in and it's like being at the Center of Existence. Nothing but heat and darkness, like in your mother's arms, or better yet, her womb. That's when we were all happiest, after all. These sleeping bags have everything mom had, except an off switch. You crawl in, set your Inner Man to wake at such and such a time, and doze off. I love the sensation of tumbling down and down and down to my own safe secure place. I haven't exactly worked up the ability to realize everything about it, but a few more years -- let's say when I die -- it's going to be blithe consciousness the whole way, baby!

This is much more limited than that, obviously, but still very useful. I'll sleep, I'll wake -- likely to face the unpleasantness of a dirty diaper -- then sleep, with the cycle going on and on, but seeming to be a couple days tops, and weeks and months will have passed. Winter will be wonderfully over! No more snow. It'll be Spring! The greatest time of year. There's only two seasons I like, Spring and Fall. If I successfully obliterate Winter, you know what this means for Summer.

Sneaking Around, Sleeping in a Thrift Store

DISCLAIMER: I have to be careful the disclaimer isn't longer than the post. But I know this is where a guy needs to tread lightly. You can't be positing illegal activity without giving at least a passing nod toward warning people from actually doing it. In this particular post, I am only imagining what a person might do, not suggesting anything that anyone should actually try or do. It's just like the ads on TV that say "Do Not Attempt." No one, for example, has any reason to think that you would mimic the actions of "Mayhem" on the insurance commercial and fall off the top of a garage backwards. But it's still necessary to say "Do Not Attempt" to be legally covered against that one idiot who might try it. Similarly, I am going to write about sleeping in a thrift store, which I in no way endorse as an activity that anyone should actually do. To conclude, please don't try this, and if you do, don't tell me. There's a place downtown where they sell smoking paraphernalia, but they say they won't sell it to you if you so much as hint around what you're going to do with it. That's my disclaimer as well. Do not even read this post if you're so much as tempted, even slightly, to actually try it.

It's cold again, with the coming of winter. Leading me to think about what I would do if I didn't have a place to go at night. So far I've never been very homeless. But I always wonder ... What if?

I was near a thrift store today that I know sells mattresses. They're stacked up against the wall. I don't think the place has a 24-hour security system, but if they did this idea would be totally out. I was thinking of the obvious scheme, that a guy could go in there and insinuate himself between the mattresses and wait for everyone to leave. Follow me? I figured you would.

OK, here's where it gets good. Once I'm totally sure everyone's gone, then I picture myself lowering the mattress and sleeping on it. Which is what anyone would do, of course. My big difference is I do not make any movement in the store, unless it be very minimal and then done only by crawling, shimmying along on my belly, or just up on my hands and knees. This keeps down shadows in case any traffic is near the door or windows.

You figure they have a bathroom. So I go crawling along the floor till I get to it. At this point, most bathrooms don't have windows so I might feel comfortable enough to stand. But I do not turn on the light. That might be disastrous. Then I crawl back to the mattress.

At this point I really have to rely on my ability to wake up on time, because if I'm still there when the manager unlocks, like Goldilocks in the well-known story, he will catch me. Once I wake up, I assume there's an alarm on the doors. So I can't just leave. Instead, I have to prop up the mattress and stand there till the place opens, PLUS 15 minutes.

Voila, a decent night's sleep!

Have you ever stayed in a roomful of other guys? Like a youth hostel, something like that. I remember one time sleeping in a room of guys. The snoring and farting were unbearable, and that was just me.

Enhancing Your Dreams

My life of lucid dreams began when I started wearing glasses to bed to catch more detail. From there, it progressed. Still today, REM activity actually continues through most of the morning. If you see a guy fluttering his eyes at you, that's me!

The glasses were enough for a while, but I wanted more. I started sleeping with a chair, thinking that if I could sit during dreams I'd be able to take in more. Indeed, things were less hectic. I was suddenly less a participant than a spectator. That was fine, but dreams are meant to be participatory and not so tame. So I went "full gator," sleeping with a stuffed alligator, which made things very wild very fast. I was chased and cornered more times than I can remember. I almost ended up with my own show on Animal Planet, in my dreams, but thankfully woke up in time.

Other times, I wanted things to be more pastoral, with dark blue skies and bright stars, and fairies and satyrs roaming the countryside. I got some books at a book sale, Van Gogh, Yeats, and Greek mythology. I tore out the specific pages to create the scene and had one of the best nights of my life. All except for the satyrs. They're very randy rascals, so if anyone tries this, make sure you make provision for them to have a good partner.

A lot of my favorite enhanced dreams involved going back to my childhood and camping with my family like we used to do. Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, brothers, cousins, everyone. Naturally, this involved going to bed with a photo album, a lantern, and a chunk of tent canvas. And throw in some fishing equipment. The biggest problem wasn't the fact that I woke up with my pillows at the end of a stringer, but that I associate camping with downpours. Touch the canvas and it leaks right through. I not going to tell much about it, except to say I changed the sheets and put down plastic.

Anyway, in my dreams I've done a little of everything over the years, including running away and working for the circus, like Toby Tyler. Even though Toby's adventures were mostly misadventures, I had more success. But it's true what they say about clowns; I'd rather be chased by satyrs any night of the week!

The weirdest, most elaborate dream I ever had was the entire Apocalypse -- 360 degrees, 3D depth, the entire judgment, God, devils, and white throne. Thankfully, it had a happy ending: I awoke five years later to a blessed morning, having seen a lot of angelic nudity and lots of other cool stuff, the works!

To prepare for this, it took workmen a whole week to construct what looked like a swing set over my bed, with pulleys, chains, and various berths for figures carved by craftsmen. These were prophets, angels, devils, etc. All this apparatus was connected by a team of technicians to several bicycles, the whole works carefully choreographed by a panel of respected ministers, according to their reasonable theological consensus. Lastly, the bikes were powered by members of a trusted Boy Scout troop. I once bought popcorn from them, so I knew they were good.

Despite the noise, I dozed off. Around midnight, I heard the cranks and pulleys churning and the breathing of the Scouts at their bikes. I drifted off again, and ascended through super consciousness into the heavenly spheres, passing through the seam that separates mundane existence from the higher realms. It was fantastic! Not a satyr or clown in sight!

But as the Apocalypse involves tumult, destruction, judgment, and the eventual reconciliation and restoration of the cosmos -- and a lot of close calls with devils -- I had more on my mind than I knew what to do with. It's harder to get back than you'd think. This is where I probably went too far, and, like I said, I ended up sleeping for five years. I was out of it! I don't know if anyone paid the Scouts and the craftsmen. Everything of my normal life was gone. All I knew during that time was the inner world I inhabited.

My family, who otherwise would've been out camping, took care of me, bedridden as I was. And if I hadn't covered the bed in plastic, I can only  imagine the bedsores I might've had. Thank goodness for my wise planning.

100 Naked Ladies Jumping the Fence

The doctor gave me something for the troubles with itching I've been having lately. It turned out the problem was a mix of poison ivy and chiggers. A bad combination. So now I'm taking medicine for it, which the doctor said would probably keep me wired and awake nights. Of course her words were repeated in my mind a thousand times as I tried to get to sleep last night. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut, or said you'll sleep like a baby. Because I know this is 80% mental. If you think it, it happens. I could not get to sleep, whatever I tried.

I thought, I could count sheep, then systematically aroused a mental flock in my mind, jumping as they do, one by one, over a fence in a pleasant pasture. I know from frequent experience with jumping sheep that they're used to it, they don't care, and, anyway, it's usually 10 minutes effort tops, nothing to complain about. And they're free to go back to whatever they were doing.

But the sheep weren't really catching my fancy, and I kept getting up to check one thing or another. Back to bed, then I was up again with an idea I had to jot it down, etc. My inner voice said, "You're not even giving it a chance." To which I snapped, "Yeah, well, you don't know what I'm doing, so shut up and leave me the hell alone!" Talk about wired, cussing out my inner voice! I owe myself an apology.

Then the idea suddenly hit me, Why not call forth a bunch of naked ladies to jump the fence? Just the prospect of lining up 100 girls would be appealing, yeah?  But it turned out to be harder and less satisfying than I had hoped. For one thing, they're not sheep. They had many complaints: "You brought us out here for this?" "Where are we anyway?" "Why are we naked?" And a few covered themselves like they were ashamed.

I looked over at a bus driver, and he shrugged, as if to say, "They've been that way the whole trip." I had to wonder: I only had this idea five minutes ago and someone organized a trip, which would've taken hours? Someone had to find the ladies, get them to consent to a trip, explain to them they would be nude, find the buses, the bus drivers, and others to take care of their comfort needs along the way, etc. The logistics being extraordinary for such a potentially minor outing -- with me likely to go to sleep in 10 minutes -- it had to be UPS! And who's paying them? Who's taking out the taxes, keeping track of the bookwork, and all that? Life is complicated. You can't eat, sleep, or even die without it being big business.

Regardless of all that -- and I never found out the answers -- there they were, 100 of the finest naked women this side of my wildest fantasies as a 14-year-old, which were normally far more exciting than those of a 60-year-old. A lot of these gals were clearly old enough to know better, and actually one had no qualms about ruining it for me. "I ain't jumping over no damned fence, sugga," was what this flashy woman said. I helped her with her purple kimono -- I could tell she'd had a hard scrabble life -- and suggested she sit this one out on the bus.

That left me with 99 who were more or less game for jumping the fence. That is, after we wasted a bunch of time talking it over. "No, seriously, I really want you to jump the fence." I got various responses. Again, some were covering themselves, talking it over with boyfriends, saying they wouldn't, etc., and, "Who are you anyway?" I patiently explained again, "I'm just guy trying to get to sleep." Then I had a question of my own: "What are you doing naked in my thoughts if you don't know me?" "This is no good," one of them said, dismissively. But once the others started, she didn't sit out.

But then it became very clear very fast that the jumping wasn't going to work. Only a few gals managed to jump. We had some dives, some side straddles, and one Fosbury flop. In each case they were banged up pretty badly. These girls weren't at all used to the basics of fence jumping, which UPS might have considered when picking them. After a while, if I wanted to salvage anything, I really had no choice but to simply open the gate and let them walk through.

OK, so they're walking and I'm counting: "1, take a look and let her go. 2, take a look at let her go. 3, take a look..." Then the bus driver came up to me and said, "What are you doing, bro, just counting? I'm not complaining but that's it?" "Yes," I said, "were you expecting something more?" Then I looked across the field and saw such an assortment of beds, bathtubs, hotel attendants, and druggists stocked with all manner of protection, that I could only think, "Such logistics, UPS had to have done this!" But someone had gotten ahead of himself, since counting was all I had in mind.

And yet ... as they passed, 1, 2, 3, etc., it was working its special magic on me -- something of the sparkle of life that you don't get counting sheep. 40, 41, 42. A lot of bowing and blowing of kisses. 50, 51, 52 ... hey, don't forget 55, wow! By now I had really stretched out and was taking it in, stretched on my bed, that is. We got to 60-something and I felt like Hefner, warm in his terrycloth bathrobe. The 70s passed, which was an international group, mostly Eastern European. Lots of odd looking hairdos and tough muscular gals doing boastful leg squats, very unappealing. By the time the 80s passed, I was happy for the change, as these were some of the ladies from home, about my age and relatively uncomfortable in the nude. But they were reasonably well-kept, better than me, frankly.

Then the 90s came, and -- please, may I have a moment? -- we were getting much warmer. I literally fell in love 10 times. But the love I had for the first nine was nothing like the love I had for the last one, Number 99! I love you, 99! UPS kept the best till last, the sweetest, coolest, and most beautiful girl of my dreams!

I should explain. She looked like everything I've ever wanted. You know? Miss July meets Farmer's Daughter meets Mom-as-a-Teenager meets Joan Jett meets Hayley Mills. And a great personality, whoa! And she also writes a blog, the female version of mine, and she's also very obsessive/compulsive! The perfect match! We were locked there in a feverish embrace, rolling around, grabbing one another like the supermarket sweepstakes. I was going for the bigger stuff, almost too much to handle. She also was going for the bigger stuff, which I know by experience can be dynamite.

Suddenly, and unwelcome to one and all, there was a clouding over of the sky and a torrential downpour. The heavens opened with such fury, it couldn't be stopped, a terrific deluge. Everyone ran for cover, myself and my darling 99 included. But as I trudged along, my feet became sore from sinking in the mud, and I felt myself becoming so sleepy that I collapsed. I was only able to look up once more, and saw 99 had also slipped in the mud. But by now I was gone, I couldn't help her.

Bolt Upright In The Night

Thank God for government snooping. It helps me get to sleep at night and get my rest. Let me explain.

At one time, I would be sleeping, then dreaming, with the noises of the night mixed in. A truck goes by and clunks its load on the bump in the road. It's a critical moment in my dream, and I bolt upright in the bed. I'm in a terrible sweat, breaking into one, I'm shaking, and even itching. (If I wear long johns in the summer, my legs tend to itch.)

After much stirring, I get back to sleep. Then I start dreaming about a mountain of bills. A mountain of bills, things you could never pay even were you to have a good job. I'm stewing away over it: I might lose my credit rating, my game toe might get better and I'll lose my disability, I might lose the house! I bolt upright in the bed, a horrendous sweat breaking out everywhere.

I try to sleep, but sleep doesn't come. The whole night's terror continues to drill into my mind. I'm even praying now, "God, be merciful to me, a poor sleeper." Again, I'm stewing over it in my mind, all that could happen: Burglars are very stealthy; there could already be one in the house; Underbrush, my dog, has virtually lost her hearing, she won't bark. Car thieves are out there, too. And someone might be stealing the copper from my air conditioner. I'm not even asleep but I bolt upright, then get up and go to the bathroom and change my sweaty clothes and sheets.

Back in bed, I'm worried over my health. There's a few new aches and pains everyday. But I manage to doze off. The health concerns have now morphed into a terrible dream. There's monks flagellating themselves and trying to get me to take up flagellating. I, who think flagellating is totally stupid! But they convince me, so there I am, beating myself to death with chains. It's making me dizzy, I'm passing out, I see the signs of death everywhere. My arteries are clogged, I've got scrofula, halitosis, catarrh, rheumatism, and dropsy. And to make it worse, I'm getting a bad doctor's report. The terror builds ... I bolt upright in bed.

Once I get back to sleep, everything has shifted. Now my dream is of people on my trail. They're all trying to corner me in some way. I have few options left. I'm telling morphing inquisitors -- morphing from kindly priests to horror film beasts -- "Yes, yes, I'm guilty and everyone knows it!" There's two figures, like the Spy vs. Spy characters, with big beaks, and they're leading me to a field of bubbling tar pits, where they raise knives to stab me and dispose of me still alive. I bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, hot tar everywhere.

At this point, I really feel like I need to work on my prayer life. But none of it helps. Then I remember, "God damn it, I live in a country where security is Number 1, top of the line, grade A. The government is keeping track of everything and everyone, and that includes me. They've got eyes in the sky, eyes in the street, eyes in the hills. They know what I've done, who I've met with, and what we've planned -- all quite innocent. No one, and nothing, is going to get me. I don't have to worry about it. Thank goodness -- seriously, thank goodness -- for that kind of security, both personal and the security we enjoy as a nation.

I consider it like that, the facts, and as I do, a great warmth descends upon me. From my feet to my head and back again, I feel the warmth. It's pervasive, a great warmth even though I'm not sweating. It is comfort, a feeling of complete comfort, like being in my dear mother's arms, little footies on my feet. And a drop seat in the butt should I need it. I find myself going into that blessed stage just before sleep, and all is well. I drift happily, then, easily into full sleep. Safe and restful, sleep, sleep, sleep.

You Could Be A Sleep Therapist

The other night, in that weird twilight zone right before falling asleep, I thought of something that would make a very good occupation, and an easy one at that, Sleep Therapy. It was such a good idea that I was immediately wide awake for another three hours.

There I was, burning the midnight oil, charting it out: How hard could it be? I've been sleeping all my life; I've had eight hours a day experience all my life, but sometimes less if the neighbors are having a party. I hate to sound like I'm making what seem like facile arguments, but you have to admit it's a hell of a point. All that, along with the native talent I've generally had in anything I put my mind to.

Here's a possible therapy session:

Someone comes in. I probe them for their sleep experiences. "Are there times when you were still conscious? That was the state of wakefulness. Were you ever unconscious? That was the state of sleep. How much did you have of one? How much of the other? Let's split the difference, you go to sleep and everyone wins. Do you remember anything like weird movies, picturing yourself in settings with aspects of reality and aspects of fantasy, all the while seeming very plausible to you while later being hard to understand, remember, or describe? Me, too, isn't that the damnest thing! What do you think that was?"

Or they're going, "I'm having a hard time sleeping." This calls for wisdom, giving the best advice you can come up with. I might say, "Let your mind drift, leave your problems behind, picture yourself on a bed, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping..." Basically, I'm hypnotizing them, then pelting them with mini marshmallows to make sure they're not faking it.

Or if they're saying, "I'm getting way too much sleep," that also calls for wisdom. My own theory is you can't sleep too much, a good round eight hours is plenty. Or something like that. But if they persist, complaining they're getting too much sleep, the answer is simple, stay awake more. "Use some mind control techniques: Imagine terrible things happening to you if you sleep, the house burning down, thieves breaking in, an NRA convention somewhere in town. And if you still find yourself dozing, wake up after eight hours and everything's solved."

Let's say you've decided to become a sleep therapist after reading this blog. Congratulations, you've finally embarked on a path toward social usefulness, because sleep is right up there, more or less essential to everyone. I would say that about all you'll need to do now is rent an office, hire a receptionist, get a phone, a patient's chair and bed, print the certificate, and you're done. And maybe a frame for the certificate. This has been a pass-fail course, and you've all passed!

The Somnambulant Biker

While I was eating my way to heaven, at the same bar and grill, they had their massive phalanx of big screen TVs tuned precisely to the channel with the bike race.

I looked up several times, mostly to see if I was under close observation, but also to keep track of the race. The bicyclists were gathered in a tight pack, with pretty much all of them going the same direction.

If you're in a bicycle race, there's some dangers; you don't want to be involved in a massive pileup. But there was one guy, and he's the guy I really had my eye on, who fell asleep numerous times in the race. Which is understandable to me, because just watching the race was making me sleepy. Not that it wasn't exciting; it was, but that kind of intense action and the riders in such a tight pack drained me emotionally and physically.

This guy, who they were calling the Somnambulant Biker, shares that psychological/physiological response with me. Frankly, I don't think he has any business being a bike racer if he can't overcome it. I know I would make a terrible bike racer. If I were in the middle of the pack -- this is the root of it -- I'd be so focused on that fact alone that it'd be hard for me to keep going the same speed as everyone else. It'd be like hypnotism; I'd be getting sleepy, very sleepy, then-- there I'd go, veering off. That's exactly what this guy did. Spinning out of control, he wiped out several competitors and came to a rest in a pile of hay bales.

But that wasn't the end for him. They got him up -- his team -- thanks to some smelling salts and got him going. I could read their lips, "You need to wake up, keep your focus," maybe the worst thing they could've said. Because it's not the focus that's off. It'd be better for him to lose his focus and thereby avert the hypnotic trap.

The next psychological challenge for him appeared to be the sharp turns. I can see that. You're going straight, then you have a hairpin turn, it does things to your thinking. If only it'd been more gradual, it'd give him time to adjust to the difference. Our minds aren't made to accept drastic changes, as seen in the biological explanation "ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny" -- things are meant to be gradual. But instead of accepting limits, we think we can circumvent nature, so for that reason it's so much easier to wipe out on sharp turns after long straightaways. And sure enough, the Somnambulant Biker fell asleep, and wiped out several more competitors before again coming to a rest on several bales of hay.

I was thinking, This guy ought to be disqualified, but of course I understood what he was going through. I looked down at another load of writhing mashed potatoes and almost fell asleep myself. So I was sympathetic, rooting for him when his team gave him another few whiffs of smelling salts. Then once again he was on his way.

It went on like that several other times. He had wiped out most of the field but was still going.

Then they were on the last lap and everything was going OK. He had to have retained quite a bit of smelling salts residue in his nasal passages, surely he could make it to the end. And yet the thought processes at work, driving him to sleep, were too much.

They were on the very last straightaway, just him and the last three competitors still in it. And I guess he got to thinking, I just might win. You know how that goes? It's an overwhelming thing to think you might come in first, because you're also thinking of all that could go wrong: It could be this, or this, or this -- the possibilities are endless. You keep thinking, thinking, thinking, worrying, stewing, and it builds on itself, it's mounting up, it's so intense, crazy intense, so bad that even on a straightaway you're not safe.

Actually, a straightaway might be the worst place to be, because you're also thinking how clear your thoughts should be, so you're going nuts thinking something is truly wrong with you. Then the closer you get, the worse it is. And so it was for the Somnambulant Biker. He was so lost in thought as they came down the final stretch, he completely blanked out, went completely black, veering back and forth, and knocking out the competition, only coming to an abrupt stop when he flipped over and crashed just an inch over the finish line.

What Could My Dream Mean?

That was such a vivid dream I had this morning that I've been thinking about it through the day.

I have this theory, which I may have read once -- perhaps I did, it seems like it -- that dreams should not be remembered. The theory is that the dream is a way of filing things away, consolidating thoughts in the psyche. And that if you hang on to them, the filing system is incomplete and therefore you will be personally hobbled in some way.

For example, you might remember all your dreams. Then something in the filing system up there would lock up. And you'd find yourself hopelessly lost in a dream loop, to the outside world appearing only a maniac who twitches and babbles. It seems like it might be true, since the nature of waking up typically is to immediately forget your dreams. Nature doesn't want you remembering!

Then, though, you get a crystal clear, vivid dream like that, and, try as your might (I didn't try in this case), you can't forget it. It could be that nature intends me to remember this particular one, which is why my nature "forgot to remember to forget," to quote a great song lyric, which was written by Charlie Feathers, if I'm remembering right and haven't forgotten.

So what could the dream of the bombs falling mean?

I would like to put a positive spin on it, but I can think of the negative ones.

Negative -- It could mean that I'm very unhappy. And that I see myself at the center of a disaster -- my life. And that I think when something bad happens, I'm just getting my just desserts. Perhaps I even long for personal destruction, in order to escape. I'm too much of a coward simply to do myself in. So my psyche is telling me to seek out destruction, even looking to the skies for it. If I'm seeking it out, it still happens, which could be because I'm masking my seeking of it. Like I heard a psychiatric acquaintance say one time that he's suspicious whenever anyone has an "accident" on the road, because he thinks it might be simply a way for them to destroy themselves "accidentally." Like suicide by police.

Neutral -- It might not mean anything about me in particular. Just that I was talking to a guy yesterday about the various theories people have about the end of the world. The discussion included some derision about radio religious shows that pinpoint the date for the end, supposedly, then when they're wrong they choose another date and go on as though nothing happened. So my mind was busy filing away our discussion, with the bombs being simply part of the consolidation process. You'll remember what I said to the Sunday School students who were making a paper sculpture out of their lesson book: "Are you pleased with yourself?"

Positive -- I see destruction all around me, but I see myself as a true survivor. I try to maintain as positive an image of myself as I can. Sure, I have problems with it from time to time. But I put a glad face on about everything. I tell my doctor I'm healthy, and he agrees. I tell my life insurance representative I'm the healthiest person in town. I tell him I have a good mental outlook as well. Seeing the bombs makes me a witness to everyone else's foolhardy approach to life, locally and on an international scale. It must be positive, because when the bombs fell that close to me, and the yellow haze engulfed me and my companion, wouldn't that have killed us? Yet I got in my car and drove away and when it came time for me to wake up, I didn't seem to be in any mortal peril.

Whichever one it is -- and I think the "Neutral" one is most likely, if any of them are likely, which isn't likely -- it was definitely vivid and memorable. I hope I don't dream vividly tonight. Just let me sleep and be done with it.

Do It With Gigantic Strides

NIGHT -- ONE HOUR LATER:

That was a power nap.

I am nicely refreshed, just a little groggy. Time to press on!

I want to end this day the right way, making gains, improving myself, honing my outlook, raising my sights. Is there a moon to howl at?

I hit that point in my falling to sleep -- and I remember it well for about 10 seconds -- that feeling of confused paralysis.

I remember reflecting on it that this was the place you need to cross on your way to a good sleep. And once you see it, you're there.

My dog is an accomplice to every power nap. She is so faithful behind the legs. She's like a nap coach, spurring me deeper to restfulness.

But that's over with now -- thank God I didn't sleep all night. Now it's time to think about exercising and finishing that book.

But first I have maybe four blog entries I need to write. I have random people who show up from around the world. Need to provide for them.

Like Mama Bird here. I've got the worm in my mind, my mind is chewing it, then I spit it out my fingers on this thing I call my keyboard.

Let me close off my theme for the day, "Gigantic Strides." I don't forget these as we press toward tomorrow. I love the concept of it.

Because, seriously, what should it be hard to accomplish things in life? It's not hard, it's just a matter of determination, making it so.

Every little thing we think is potential groundwork for what will follow. If we think negatively, then NO, we probably won't get it done.

If we think positively about ourselves and our abilities, then step out and DO IT, and do it with "Gigantic Strides," we can do it well.

For several reasons, one being because we're acting more on instinct. Combine instinct with personal confidence, there's no stopping you.

I've said what I wanted to say. It's done. Now I must press on, gigantic strides and all that, practicing what I preach. Good night to you.

Gigantic Strides Philosophy Includes Sleeping

EVENING:

It's been a day of gigantic strides. Whatever I've had to do I did it -- BOOM -- with determination! Very focused. Now it's time to relax.

I had a number of projects that were lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery. Plink, plink, plunk. They kept coming, they kept going down.

A lot of tiny stuff, some stuff I could've put off to another day. But I kept thinking "Gigantic Strides." What you gotta do, do it now .

I recommend the whole "mindful" approach to living. Adopt some kind of theme for the day, like "Gigantic Strides," and see how it helps.

Who knows about tonight? I feel tired, really. But I have a book I want to finish, maybe go exercise. "Gigantic strides" gets it done!

If I end up at the exercise place -- and "end up" isn't the right way to say it. If I PURPOSELY GO there, I'll stride through my routine.

Trouble is I just had a big meal. That on top of being tired gives me that drifting, dreamy, eye closing, lethargic swirling consciousness.

I might take a "Gigantic Stride" into the bedroom and take an early evening power nap. Set my mind on a half hour and not hit the snooze.

Sleeping is good for the person who takes Gigantic Strides, right? It's something you NEED to do, so do it with that Gigantic Stride spirit!

To sit here and rue it is not true to the Gigantic Strides philosophy. To need to do something, then to do it with determination is it.

Whatever the task is -- and sleeping does qualify, now that I've given it some thought -- line it up like one of the ducks: PLINK!