Sometimes it seems I deflect readers from personal issues at this blog by talking politics. Well, maybe I do. It takes immense courage to bare yourself publically the way my friend Holly does at her page Bus Stop (http://busstopholly.blogspot.com) and I just don't have balls that size. Plus I've been doing a lot of meditation lately, after my early December meltdown, trying to get to the root of my periodic derailings; and if my readers are anything like me, which I suspect they are, they probably experience something akin to an involuntary epileptic absence whenever somebody starts talking about religion. Most of you know I have Buddhist pretensions. It doesn't have to go too much further than that!
But should anybody out there be requiring something sort of personal from me today, how's this? It's a dream I had last night, recorded in my journal the moment I woke up (well, after I'd had a wee). If there are any psychiatrists out there, please analyse this for me:
I was with a group of people and we had got hold of the last jumpsuit Elvis Presley wore on stage before he died. I decided to show off by trying the suit on. Went away to change, then came back with the suit underneath my green winter coat. I was about to let everybody see it when the door came open and Frank Sinatra rolled in driving a golf cart. Suddenly embarrassed, thinking, "My God, Sinatra can't see me like this!" I crept furtively out of the door and went to put my own clothes back on.