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This morning I woke up at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, was feeling some excitement about the projects I'd planned for the day, and decided to stay up. Then, predictably, a little before noon, I decided that I REALLY needed to take a nap. Which I did.

When I awoke, an hour or so later, it was from this really weird dream in which a little girl, with whom I'd been talking about music, told me that she was now a member of the Seven-Eighths Club.

Apparently, she had been learning to read music--much like my granddaughter Sophia has been--and had been having a terrible time reading and performing music that was written in 7/8 time.

So I immediately launched into one of those professorial explanations of mine as to what 7/8 time is, saying that this time signature simply means that there are seven beats to a measure with an eighth note getting one beat.

Of course, this sort of explanation--especially to a kid who has probably heard it at least 7 or 8 million times but is dealing with some manner of emotional, not intellectual, block--is totally useless.

But not to worry. The child then proceeds to explain that she has a teacher, fortunately more in tune (see what I did there?) with her students than I would've been, who enrolled her in something called The Seven-Eighths Club.

And while she didn't go into much detail about it, I assumed that this club was made up of students who had the same phobia as this little girl did with respect to music written in the 7/8 time signature. And apparently, by commiserating with her fellow sufferers, she had found friendship, consolation, and relief from this most debilitating of musical melodies. Er, maladies.

It was at that point that I woke up and the first thing I thought of, in trying to understand the odd connection which  I sensed between this dream and my waking life, was where in the world would this poor child have encountered a 7/8 time signature?

Surely, at 10 or 11 years of age, she wasn't being asked to perform the music of, say, Harry Partch whose protégé Danlee Mitchell had been my music theory teacher in college. Because 6/8 is a common time signature for, say, a waltz while 7/8 exists only in those remote reaches of the musical cosmos inhabited by driven (or deranged) geniuses like, well, the aforementioned Harry freakin' Partch.

Then, as I was sitting on the side of the bed, debating between two equally-persuasive modes of re-entering my day-- either struggling to my feet and successfully walking a few steps across the room to my chest of drawers or struggling to my feet and immediately falling on my face--it came to me.

I would simply give in to the conspiring and persuasive forces of vertigo and gravity and fall on my face. No, no, wait, that wasn't it.

Just before I had decided to surrender my consciousness to what I assumed would be this restful interlude, I had been working on my current project in the basement. Specifically, I was installing a piece of hardware called a gate handle or storage bin handle, depending on where you look it up. (Lowe's calls it one, Home Depot calls it the other.)

Anyway, I was installing one on either side of my refurbished target box on a line 24" off the floor so that the screws, when they fully penetrated the side of the box, would embed in the end of the shelf mounted inside of it.

So I drilled the necessary holes and mounted the one on the left side without a problem. But when I looked at the right side, it appeared that my line at 24" was slightly off the centerline of the shelf edge. So I got out my tape and quickly determined that my line needed to be at 23-3/8" inches from the bottom edge of the unit.

Then, milliseconds before I made the fatally-flawed pencil line and drilled the horrifically-disfiguring holes, in the side of my newly-painted masterpiece, I thought, wait, that's not right, it's twenty-three and SEVEN-EIGHTHS.

See where I'm going with this? And aren't you now wishing you could somehow recover that time, those precious moments of your life, that you've wasted reading this?

Well, YOU CAN'T! As Hillary once famously proclaimed, "There are no 'do-overs!'" I don't remember what the context was, when she said it, but I do believe that THERE'S a woman who would know.

In any case, I'm quite certain that this is the first time, in my nearly 74 years, that I've ever made sense of a dream. And I have to admit that, at first, I was kind of excited about it. You know, this sort of personal landmark, reached at long last.

Then, as the lunch that I'd been eating as I typed this began to settle and other similarly-compelling realities of life began to intrude on this exploration of that mysterious boundary between the conscious and subconscious mind, I began to feel like everyone else who's been reading this.

What a freakin' waste of time, lol...

LPK
Dreamwidth
3.16.2018
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Around mid-morning, I shoveled about 3-5" of snow from the sidewalk and driveway, starting from where the sidewalk meets the driveway at the front of the house and back to where the driveway ends, at the rear of the house. That's probably 15 x 40.' I leave the other half of the driveway, from the front of the house to the road, for the plowing service.

After that, around 11:30, I headed over to Mooney Ave, to what used to be the family home, intending to shovel the walks and stairs and to confirm that the furnace was still running. By that time, though, I needed a break. This latest snowfall, probably generated by the storm that's moving up the East Coast, was the heavier, moisture-laden kind, and I had to do a lot more lifting and carrying, rather than just pushing it to the end of the driveway and throwing it up over the snowbank.

So I decided to stay on the highway until the exit for Lowe's, where I picked up a container of ice melt which I needed at Mooney. After which I drove a couple of blocks south to Erie Boulevard and then continued east to the Barnes & Noble. At the B&N, I found a music theory book, that I'm gonna use to help my granddaughter with her keyboard percussion lessons, and then decided, as I was looping back towards Mooney Ave, to stop at the Subie dealership to get the oil changed.

On my way to the dealership, I also stopped at the Herb Philipson's Outdoor Store on the boulevard to check availability of a nitro-piston, .22-caliber air rifle for target shooting in the basement. Or to hunt small game, in the urban ruins, after Trump and the other "Little Rocket Man" push their respective nuclear buttons and end life as we know it.

(Trump claims, based on his delusional thought process, to have "the larger button." But what he apparently hasn't considered, before running his childishly-impulsive mouth, is that there are other "buttons" in this world, ones with LARGER HANDS THAN HIS hovering over them. OMG, please tell me that I didn't go there. OK, I did.)

By "small game" I mean primarily squirrel, although I have seen at least one very impressive flock of wild turkeys in the neighborhood as well. I offer that as an alternative to those who disdainfully refer to squirrels as "tree rats." But where they see tree rats, I see protein. And, no, they don't taste like chicken. Sorry. Then again, neither does KFC. In my opinion.

As I've found to be the case elsewhere, Philipson's stock was badly depleted during the run-up to Christmas, so I may just resort to one of the specialty retailers, like PyramydAir.com, to get what I really want. I've decided to buy something halfway decent that I can maybe pass on to my daughter who's become something of a "prepper," possibly influenced by her 9/11 experience when she lived in New York.

In the meantime, said daughter had been monitoring my progress through this series of mostly-unplanned stops and I had been assuring her that I was, in fact, inventing excuses to avoid going to the house to shovel. (She totally spoiled my fun by agreeing that oil changes were important and saying that she didn't blame me for not wanting to shovel. Usually, she's not such an enabler, lol.)

When I finally got there I found that, as expected, the plows had completely blocked the driveway, forcing me to park on the street. I actually think that the Subie could've made it in and out OK, especially with the new tires and my expert driving, cough, cough.

But driving through a snow bank is never a smart thing to do, if it can be avoided, because you have no way of knowing what the plow may have deposited there along with the snow. Even something like a broken-off chunk of ice could dent or sever a brake line or cause other damage to the undercarriage. At the very least, you're gonna pack the inside rim of the wheels with snow which will throw off their balance and result in annoying and potentially dangerous vibration on the highway.

The snow was actually coming down again when I got out of the car and there was a pretty brisk wind to go with the 6-degree temperature. I was astonished at how much snow had accumulated on the sidewalk and front steps. My surprise was probably owing to the fact that I'd been shoveling two or three times a day back at the house, so it never accumulated there. Here, it was easily over my knees, especially where it had drifted, and I had a hard time getting up the front steps and onto the porch where I keep the shovel.

Afterwards, I was thinking that I could probably just lean it against the outside of the house, since nobody else in the neighborhood seems to even know what it's for. But with my luck it'd be spotted by some passing addict, maybe one that I know, stealing her way to forever.

Honestly, what's happened on the east side is really so sad. Every year or so, another house gets sold to an absentee landlord who doesn't care about maintenance standards or quality of life in the neighborhood. Or who they rent to, as long as they get a security deposit and no one burns the place down. And even then.

I swear, walking down the street from one summer to the next, you can sense that the aggregate I.Q. of the neighborhood has dropped another 10 points in the interim. Not a nice thing to say, I know, but that's really how it is.

Anyway, it took me a good 30 to 40 minutes to clear the sidewalk and front steps and to put down a layer of sand once I'd finished the shoveling. I did have the new jug of ice melt from Lowe's, but I don't like using it unless absolutely necessary because it's so hard on the concrete sidewalks and steps.

When I was done, I texted my daughter again and told her that ours was the only sidewalk on the block that had been cleared that day. Or that week, if you don't count the two women who have houses across the street and continue to be good neighbors and conscientious property owners--despite the growing odds against them.

On my way home, I stopped at McD's and picked up a Southwest salad with two dressings and a root beer with no ice. Gotta eat healthy in my old age, you know. Pftt! On the road, it was slow going and I stayed on surface streets the whole way because Central New York is now under a travel advisory.

I decided, once I got here, to eat dinner, take a couple of Ibuprofen, and call it a night. It'll be the second day in a row that I've skipped my exercises, which I don't like to do. But my shoulder is now bothering me, the one that I hurt a year or two ago when I fell, and I don't want to aggravate that further.

So, instead of my workout, I'm gonna put my feet up and start reading my new music theory book.

I think my granddaughter, and Danlee Mitchell (see previous entry), would be OK with that...

LPK
Dreamwidth
1.5.2018

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