Dreaming in Style

Credit: Joan of Arc / KGWA http://kgwa.deviantart.com

I dreamed that I had my hair cut short and dyed black (in real life I would go for red). It was too straight and it spiked in all directions, and I was unhappy about it.

The hairdresser insisted that that was not a problem. All I had to do was wander the streets looking for the cutest young man that I could spot, and he would know exactly how to style my hair.

I walked down Elgin street, and before long I came to a dandy young fellow. I walked up to him, and he looked at my hair, pulled out gel, a comb, and a mirror and styled my hair perfectly. All was accomplished in absolute silence.

I looked boyishly handsome as I walked off humming a gay tune.

(Interpretations of my dream are encouraged)

Carry Phone and Answer Machine

Unlike Harmony (whose blog I will truly miss) I have been waiting for the technology that she has scrapped since I was seven years old.

I could not wait to have my own carry phone and answer machine just like the ones described to me in my cherished Childcraft encyclopedia.

But, the one thing I am still waiting for is my jet pack!








Images taken from the 1968 edition of Childcraft : The How and Why Library published Fields Enterprises Educational Corporation.

Kitty Blogging on Hiatus

I thought Duncan wanted to stay. But while I was watching TV upstairs, Zoom snuck in, softly called out to him and he zipped downstairs and into her arms. I discovered them outside waiting for a taxi only because I went to get myself a ginger beer and checked the door after I found a parcel on the staircase.

I tried to be graceful about it... if you love something set it free, if it comes back to you, blah, blah, blah...

2D has made his choice. At least Zoom left me someone else to keep me company at night. 2P (Pirate Pal) was in the parcel along with a bottle of wine. He's not the same, but he won't need pedicures and regular grooming.

I'm going to drink that wine now, I think. And maybe call in sick for tomorrow.

The great escape

So yesterday around tiffin we're sitting in what the addiction rehab counsellors call 'the sharing circle', though 'the staring circle' is more like it, because we've been eyeing each other all afternoon, mum, glum and wary.

"I think we're very close to a breakthrough here," the counsellor says, in an ineffectually hopeful kind of way.

Suddenly the hot cardboardy smell of takeout pizza blows into the room from one of the offices down the hall. Bad move by somebody, because the gang of pizza-addicted crows from Sarnia predictably goes apeshit, cackling bloody murder and rumbling en masse toward the aroma. Our counsellor rushes off to aid a couple of staff who, from the sounds of things, are getting mugged by crows. The rest of the group charges after to watch and hoot. The din is terrific.

There's just me and the horse left. He sidles out of the corner he's occupied silently for the past dozen days, stands in front of the padlocked emergency door, and looks at me hard. He finally speaks: "I'm busting out. You in?"

His drawl is oddly familiar. I can't place it, but answer, "Oh, yeah!"

A huge hindward kick shatters the door and an alarm pours new clamour over the chaos. Everybody's too busy to notice. The horse turns to head out, pauses, looks over his shoulder and cocks an eyebrow. "Which way you going?"

"Elgin Street. Ottawa," I say.

"I can give you a ride as far as North Bay," he says. "Got business there. Jump on."

Best offer I've had in days. I hop up, circle twice on his broad back, lie down, and cover my nose with my tail. He heads out into the cold twilight. The cacophony fades behind us. "Didn't catch your name," he says, after a mile or so.

"No real name. Just coyote," I say. "What's yours?"

"No name either," he says. "Just horse."

A mile or two more of clip-clopping in the dark, and another question occurs: "What were you in for?"

"Spaghetti," he says, tersely. The tone brooks no further questions. I shut the hell up. Who am I to judge? After awhile, as I start to drowse, his swaying pauses. There's a scrape, a sulphurous flare, quickly damped, then the smell of foul little black cheroot wafts over his shoulder. "Ah," I think as I drift to sleep. "Got it..."

The Horse With No Name's voice reminds me of Clint Eastwood's...