The dreams I’ve been having lately have been so vivid, so confused. It’s like I’m dreaming someone else’s dreams, some sick bastard who thinks about skinny premature babies, slovenly urban hillbillies, disgruntle off-duty police officers, musty bowling alleys filled will tiny butterflies, dusty nuts in a bag, the kind we used to eat in Greece, you crunch them between your teeth and they pulverize into fine powder, the perfect nut for snorting if only they were hallucinogenic, Greece and Turkey would be the Columbia of the modern era. Istanbul the new Amsterdam. I get up at 4 am for a drink of cold tap water.
I’ve got a million ideas and an active imagination. I’ve got an attitude to liberate but offend instead those who are not thinking the same thoughts I think. We are entering the toughest time of winter and a new month-long lock down begins on Boxing Day.
The planet spins and spins. The virus mutates. Covid-20 now. The trade off for viruses, so they say, is the more transmissible they are, the less deadly. I put on a Jazz Vibes playlist, something for the background. I wonder when my time to get a jab in the arm will come. I’ve been pretty accurate with my perditions so far so I’m going to guess June, maybe
I wander around Istanbul and Amsterdam in my mind’s eye, remembering the cold, dank sidewalks and hotel lobbies. The locals bundled up against the cold, wet days and evenings.
The planet spins. I’m alone in my loft with my coffee and memories, my books, podcasts, youtube favourites. I watch critically, writing down in a notebook what I like and don’t like about different channels. I’ll have a complete list soon. I’ll share it here for a place to come back to.