And then this strange night: I woke up from a dream in which I was attending some art event as an invited panelist, with my usual fears of appearing in public and trying to look intelligent and well-informed. Ellie, not on the panel but sitting close, started finding fault with me in a very public way, much to my annoyance, beginning with a complaint about my cigar. The panel discussion had not yet begun, and she complained that I had taken off my nice brown cashmere jacket (which I do not possess) and rolled up the sleeves of my pink shirt less tidily than she would have wanted. Meanwhile, talk of my cigar persisted until I tried quelling the talk with a loud "Enough about me!"--to which no-one paid the slightest attention. Then Ellie piped up with the observation that she was surprised by my use of the word "cigar", knowing me for a plain-spoken man who eschews circumlocution and everyone knew that "cigar" actually meant "penis." At which I recall exclaiming that this was too embarrassing, and I promptly woke.
On waking, I stumbled blearily to the bathroom for an early morning pit stop and, feeling somewhat dry in the mouth--thanks, no doubt, to the martini, the wine and the Grand Marnier--fumbled under the sink for my white plastic bottle of Biotene mouthwash. I had taken a big swallow from the bottle and was about to gargle when I realized something was seriously amiss. I checked the bottle in the dim light and realized that instead of the mouthwash I had picked out a similar container of Eucerin moisturizing cream. So much for early morning bleariness...
Which reminds me that we had a terrible night a couple of days ago with George the dog wakeful, watchful and restless for the entire night. I had just been reading in the New York Times about the China earthquake and the strange behavior of the pandas shortly before the quake hit, so I had earthquakes on the mind and of course we are long overdue, here in Southern California, for another "event"... So I was convinced that George's weird behavior heralded some imminent disaster and lay awake for hours making plans for our escape and eventual survival. In the morning, though, on awakening, I noticed that the covered plastic cup where we keep George's late night snack had remained unopened: the poor dog had been deprived of his habitual bedtime treat. He could hardly have made his point more eloquently if he'd had the power of speech.
This morning, I woke again at ten past six and slipped out to the garden for a lengthy sit. A truly lovely meditation, accompanied by the songs of countless birds.
Forgive all this personal stuff for a Sunday entry. You didn't have to read it. If you did, my thanks for your tolerance. And blessings all around...
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