they all sound like idiots

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I can't link you to anyone who doesn't sully this with his creepy mouth, but maybe that's the way in for people. The deeper understanding rejects the idiots with their creepily well-meaning ego holes.

It poured again so hard last night I couldn't hear the murmuring podcast I was playing to help me go to sleep. We had more rain on the 13th here than we've ever had in the whole month of October. That, or nearly, has been true for each of the days since. Lots of hardboiled eggs. I'm out. I have a small hunk of cheese, a stick of butter, and some potato flakes left. I'm hoping that was the last of the rain for at least a few days so I can get my act together.

Got a lot done in my dreams. This town consisted of a rundown old post office that was triangular in shape and my house. My house was a little shack that looked more like something you'd put together on a beach than something put together by professionals, but if it had been professional once, it was no longer. Didn't need windows. Enough boards missing to serve.

I was talking often with the post master, who was sometimes a man and sometimes a woman, and taking a little girl of three or four out to play, out on a nature walk, and part of the walk was down in Mendocino and pointing at tourists. She's all into this adventure and bulletproof. No concept of ever running out of all this energy to move around and enjoy things and I'm being a party poop and wanting to turn around. She's against it, but I'm the big person.

It took us only about ten steps to get back here... it was so short I felt guilty for curtailing her joyful odyssey too quickly, but there were people to fix things for and there were three or four situations I had to straighten out for them. Kept almost waking up as I finished each task.

Scott was driving Marilyn Monroe and me around a forest-lined desert. They were in the front and I was in the back behind him. Scenery is flowing by the windows and Marilyn is giggling about the countryside, and suddenly goes, "Oh, this is where the animals all want you to pet them. Stop, Scott, stop." Not even Scott would think of contradicting Marilyn Monroe. Maybe he's permanently lost in lawyer mindfuck land, but he's a he and will figure a way to comply with Marilyn's every whim.

So we stop and, sure enough, there's a family of filthy and ratty raccoons on a boulder we gotta go pet. They went first and I went up to one of the raccoons, gave him a little scratch behind the ears, told him to take a bath and came back home to finish fixing things for people.

All buildings were barely buildings, almost as much outdoors as indoors. It was either beach/forest or desert/forest, with roads and paths and shortcuts. None of the people were familiar or unfamiliar, except Scott and Marilyn, and Scott was familiar but ignoring me, and Marilyn was obliviously familiar and ignoring everyone, with the one break to love up some filthy raccoons. I was marvelously unattached to most of it. Just the flash of remorse for cutting the little girl's fun too short and the momentary acknowledgements of having fixed something for someone and maybe the grubby raccoon pierced the otherwise perfect detachment. No grasping or pushing away.

always and any time....