Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Teh middle gel tasked me this morning with the fact that I haven’t posted much recently and also tried to tag me with guilt over the supposed disappointment that said lack of content is causing to the dozen or so friends of the decanter who “follower” your humble host here.

Well,  who am I to deny me publick, even if it consists largely of one manipulative 13 y.o. daughter?

Actually, as far as substantive content goes, I’ve got a couple book reviews in mind plus some commentary on various pressing politickal issues.  However,  since it’s pretty late and also since they seem to be a pretty big draw here, I will instead relay yet another one of my bizarro dreams, which I had in the last couple days.

In this one, I was somewhere in the Holy Land.  A complaint was going around that the waters which were supposed to flow into various pools were not coming down from their source because somebody had forgotten to open a stopcock at the base of the source from which all these pools were supplied.   The multiple voices in my dream (straight out of the extra casting in The Ten Commandments)  clamored for somebody to hike up the valley and attend to the matter.

Finally, a tall Scotswoman volunteered that she would undertake the task.   I think that she was a nun.  At any rate, I recall that she wore a wimple.   (As an aside, I know where the tall Scotswoman came from:  Peej O’Rourke wrote in his Holidays in Hell of encountering such a person in the early 80’s at the border crossing between Lebanon and Israel.  I had reread that book within the past couple weeks.  The nunnage seems to have been of my own devising.)

Anyhoo, I next recall following said Scotswoman up a long series of rocky valleys.  Finally, we reached the source lake.   I had an idea that I knew where the stopcock was and started poking around at the base of a rock wall, looking for a particular stone I knew needed to be turned.  The Scotswoman, on the other hand, claiming she knew what she was doing, directed my attention to a set of PVC pipes projecting out of a different outcrop.   I looked at the plumbing and thought to myself, “Naaaw, that’s just a potty!  That’s not what we’re looking for…it’s too artificial!”

With that, I turned around and started walking back down the valley we’d come up.  I remember looking at various ridges, rocks, ponds and marshes and thinking how lovely they all were.  All of them were framed in that late-day bright light that one sometimes sees and which seems to pick out every detail.  Dunno what happened to the Scotswoman or to her quest to open the stopcock.  All I remember thinking was that somehow in the end it really didn’t matter that much.

And then, as they say, I woke up.

So there you have it.    Armchair Freudians may forge ahead.  Other readers who would rather see some pics of the new Port Swiller Manor porch or our two cute new kittehs can leave comments urging teh middle gel to forward said pics to ol’ Robbo so that I can post them here.  B’lieve me – your voices make a difference.

 

 

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