NEEDLING

Quiet time can often do people a lot good. I should attempt to experience this quietude sometimes soon. Am trying a little this morning, before starting my week, one of the two busiest weeks of the year in the liquor and wine biz. It’s late morning. Last night I woke up at two in the morning, agitated from burlesque dreams I can no longer remember. Too lazy to scribble anything at the appropriate time, I just lied there trying real hard to fall into a deep restful slumber from which I’d wake up fully energized and ready for the new day. Not so. Not happening. Instead, I went to the living room couch, followed by my dog, and I had a scotch while he slept on after getting onto the couch next to me unbothered by whatever was bothering me. I sat there and stared at the wall for a bit, but it wasn’t doing me any good. The biggest problem last night was an inability to breath. It’s probably some sort of allergic reaction again to something or other.

There...that’s not much, but that’s all I have to say. Except for maybe on the 14th of this month, I had a dream which I gave a title to, the title is the following: The Taming of the Dragon at the Top of the Tower. I remember the dream to be pretty terrible. There was an old man with a long white beard at the top of the tower. The dragon was inside a cage of sorts, a cage that looked incredibly like one of those German silos you find littering the beaches of France. The old man had a big stick, and he was hitting it with all his force onto the top of the dragon’s cage, which made loud and deafening pangs and pongs. This really angered the dragon, who wanted to sleep, and the dragon in turn spit fire through small holes at the top of his cage, the small holes which in a silo on the beach would have served to stick guns through and shoot at the incoming enemy. I was running up the stairs of the tower, trying real hard to make it to the top, but the staircase never ceased to exist. The stairs kept on and on. The old man at the top of the tower, the one who was angering the dragon by making large resonating pangs like crashing planes on Chinese gongs, kept yelling out my name in anger. Everybody was angry it seemed, when all we all wanted to do was sleep. That’s what I dreamt in the early hours of the 14th of December this year, and I know this because I wrote a line in my journal which reminds me of this particular dream every time I look at it. Recently, though, I’ve been lazy, and I’ve not written little notes to myself to remind me of the tings I like to be reminded of, which can be a multitude of things. My memory is horrible, and I need to make little notes about just about everything. Sometimes when I get lucky, I'll write a little note which brings the whole experience back. Most of the time, I'm not so lucky.