Last night, I caught up with my journal entries for Vol. 3 – the last 12 pages were cut and paste from the three blog entries from within the timeframe (Oct 27-Nov19) of all my collected notes. This new, fancy looking journal didn’t come with a rear pocket or a pen holder feature, it’s strictly a blank book. Using a piece of thick paper I made a rear pocket, attaching it with strong glue. For a pen holder, I didn’t come up with anything as creative, just a couple of rubber bands.
One of the reasons I skipped using this one is the size of the printed lines, they were spaced too far for my liking. I like the thinner lines (Probably 7mm in height, I have to check) of my older journals, so rather than purchase a new one – I opted to begin in this one, regardless of the shortcomings. My pen of choice for journaling is the Sharpie, 0.7 S-GEL – It just fits nicely for what I need it to do. The only complaint I can think of is random blotchy performance that might actually be from the grease from my hands. To curtail this, I started using a piece of laminated paper that I sized to my preferred journal dimensions (“6×9”) to rest my hand on while I write.
This morning I woke up several times, and each time whatever the dream was that was playing out, retreated hastily beyond my ability to recall what was going on. I’m of the mindset that the reflected solar radiation from the moon, however light, could be vibrational enough to stir my dreams up. Not the case for me when I woke up at 12:30 and 3:15AM. By the time I fell back to sleep this morning, the moon would have already set, only crystalline eddies of energy would be perceptible by any nocturnal creature.
A delivery guy shows up, wearing blue coveralls (Workers in the dream world, at least in mine will wear the distinctive outfit for their profession as a way for my conscious mind to grasp the meaning – I’ve mentioned blue coveralls before) this particular man was blonde or white-haired – (another clue personally for me) with pale skin visible up to the v of the collar, exposing just the top of his chest. He begins unloading box after box from his hand-truck, neatly in stacks almost four feet in height. I come over to check the address’s on a few and notice they belong to other buildings in the area. When he came in I was cheerfully doing some paperwork and nodded for him to put the packages in the room, now I was irate. “These don’t belong to us, you have to take them back. We don’t use these Russian parts here…”
Boxes of screws, binder clips, and assorted other things came out of one of the packages that I opened before checking the address. The writing on each part box was Cyrillic. Was this guy Russian? The man is upset with us, demanding that once he placed the items down, he is no longer responsible for them and we had to call for a pick-up. I’m not having it, trying to make him understand, he pushes past me and hits me on the right arm with his left – this guy is solid muscle and slim. My workers take exception to the arrogant cheap-shot. Next thing I know, two people jump him, and an all out donnybrook explodes – I hang back helpless as the delivery guy takes a few shots and then turns the tables on both of my people, grabbing the woman in a headlock and leg scissors, pulling back like a pro wrestler. She’s not able to move and my other guy try’s to free her, whacking the blonde guy as hard as he could.
The dream releases me from its grip and I almost lose the thread of action – but it comes back. Slowly I piece together what just went down in my head. It seems that “Tricky” is about to make a “Special” delivery soon, and I won’t be able to send it back.
Gabe Miranda lives a stones throw from uptown Charlotte, enjoys Star gazing and creating chaos on Twitter. Currently working on editing diary posts to self publish his first book.
