Still looking and feeling pretty bad, I returned to work yesterday. Didn’t accomplish a lot. A skeleton crew in for the holiday week, and not much going on. I read psychological reports, cited them, and wrote some recommendations. Today I plan to finish the report and get some end of month stuff done.
Our house has been shown more this holiday season than I’d expected.
Seventy-Six has been crawling in earnest, and forgotten is the apparent laziness that kept him playing only those objects sufficiently close to roll over and get or lunge and grab. More solid foods, now. Enjoys a game where his grunted vowel sounds are repeated, then will sometimes attempt to repeat true vowel sounds in imitation of those I’ve made. Loves to have one particular Beatrix Potter story read to him time and time again.
I was able to manage a light workout last night, and hope to get another one in tonight. Monk, the sixth season (I think) arrived yesterday, and we watched an ep before my workout. I’d forgotten how cleverly written and staged it is sometimes.
I seem frequently to be troubled by strange dreams. I don’t put a lot of stock in them, but some are odd enough and clearly enough remembered that I mention them here for possible entertainment value. Last night, or very early this morning I awakened after dreaming I’d been part of a US intelligence team at an airbase in a Muslim country. The temperatures were mild, and our digs were not of the sealed, air-conditioned variety. A group of US diplomatists boarded a large white passenger jet with red writing or trim on its fuselage. A dog sick with an intestinal problem was carried on board, but was not kept in either the hold or the passenger area. Some cloth-wrapped packages were also brought aboard. They were bound for a meeting in Iran. Shortly after taking to the air, that jet was struck by another white jet, and the deliberate collision resulted in the destruction of both aircraft, and the deaths of everyone aboard both of them.
A woman I’d known in high school had been aboard the diplomatist’s jet, and I felt a little sad that she’d perished thus.
I saw the collision and explosion. Standing at the airbase, observing the tall, white-haired, craggy featured clean-shaven man apparently in charge of part of the operation, I saw him reach into a box and take out a heavy green and black surgical mask and put it on, securing its stretchy bands around the back of his head and neck. He wore both a green jacket and a white jacket, and I suppose the quick change is the sort of thing one sees in dreams.
Then we walked over to where the airplanes and their contents had fallen to earth, gathering up the broken and scattered human remains, and leaving the aircraft parts for another team. At the time, I reckoned that team would find evidence that one of the cloth-covered packages stowed aboard the white jet with red trim or writing had something to do with either the explosion or the collision.
I don’t think I had a fever or ate anything strange before bedtime, I’ve probably just logged too many hours watching movies.