Pressurized

I dreamed that I was crossing over a roiling river on a trestle bridge, much like the Fort Pitt Bridge in Pittsburgh or the Bridge Street bridge in Brattleboro.

I had been driving some big old sedan, transporting a bunch of important boxes (contents unknown) to an important (unnamed) destination. When I reached the span, the road itself and my car vanished, *POOF*. I was still on the street leading to the bridge, now carrying all the packages in my arms. All that remained was the structure's cast iron skeleton.

I was stunned and more than a little bit perplexed. How am I supposed to cross now? This is a bit much, don'cha think? Also, what the mondo fuck!

I had to get to the other side.
Slowly, I made ultra cautious moves, toeing down the thin girders, struggling mightily to not fall into the drink or drop any of my, allegedly, precious cargo. Occasionally, I'd steal nervous, timid looks at the endless line of human traffic, backed up behind me. This pavement-free span seemed absolutely normal to all of them and they were, to a one, astro peeved with my snail-ish progress. If they still had car horns (everyone's cars had pinged out of existance) they'd have been honking like a flock of beyond the pale, pissed off geese.

Pressure? What pressure?

What up with this nasty little nocturnal panto? It’s my bloody state of mind lately and…goddammit, just see yesterday’s post. K? Pretty sure I need a cookie RIGHT NOW.

Oni, while cleaning out the basement, found a stack of The Amazing Bob’s poetry – ten notebooks worth. I’d wondered where all TAB's older, pre-Valhalla, writing was. I'd thought they were lost forever. *PHEW* As yet, I’ve not been able to gin up the starch to crack any of them open. I think, knowing this’ll be both wondrous AND an extra special, surefire sob-a-thon spark, I need to set the stage. I’ll place his books in a circle around me on our cozy bed, light a few of his candles (TAB loved smell-good candles and I still have them all), have a lovely cup of Chianti at hand and dive in. Saturday, when there’s nothing else on the calendar, will be a good day to wrap myself in his words.

Under Pressure – Queen