Copying Karen, because boy oh boy, what she said! She’s talking about practicing the flute in her dreams and, oh boy, have I been there, done that!

And why stop there? How about coding in your sleep? Fortran IV, anyone? On a DecWriter II hooked up to a mainframe computer somewhere in the universe by some slower than all getout connection? Or JavaScript, rummaging around in the Document Object Module? Tick tick tick tick ding. grok grok. Or counting money in thousands over and over and over ad nauseam, trying to figure out if you can scrabble together enough shekels to buy that stupid little house on the west side of the planet.

And then we got to the packing years. I’d be sitting on the floor in the middle of about ten square yards of baby clothes and toys and stuffed aminals and diapers and other flotsam and jetsam and cosmic debris and whatnot. Dragging all of that stuff into various bags and getting it all in and zipping up the bags and then looking around and seeing another ten square years years yards of debris. All of which *had* to be packed. No way could we leave it home/beach/Houghton Lake. Wake me up. QUICK!

I am doing a *lot* of this frenetic non-restful kind of dreaming lately. Sketching and scanning and skewing and filtering Photoshop layers ad infinitum. Navigating content management systems. Photoshop “art” using only text and Flash animations are probably next on the docket. Of all things, the familiar old shoreline dreams are non-existent. Except for a little bit of green water under ice last night at the Doelle end of the beach. Somehow Grinch was involved. I forget how. But I know we drove down a goddamn road.

Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

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