The Way is the Way

There are doctors working on my hand, the one wounded in a bike accident in real time long ago. They can fix that little finger. They have inserted needles, without pain, and I'm back in a splint again. I am so amazed. Then when I look down in a while, the splint is gone. I tell ya, modern medicine.

They tell me I have every chance of restoring full use of my left hand, and I reply, "You have a debate with Dr Lewis then," referring to my (dreamtime) former plastic surgeon, and one of the new dox says, "No, you have a debate with Dr Lewis."

I must go from here to there now, from one clapboard village along these ridges through several more to yet another. I start out, naked, of course, but then I'm delighted to notice I have on a long T, with beet juice soaked onto the front tail, which I don't tuck in because I have nothing to tuck it into. Anyhow, I'm relatively well dressed by dreamtime standards.

It's a matter of ancient woody towns in close order, and I pass through them, and then realize I have left my vehicle parked back where I started, at the doctors' office. Oh, well. I start off retracing my steps.

I proceed in my usual dreamtreck, through a series of ancient stores featuring odd goods laid out to confound shoppers. You cannot easily transit through this confusion. Here I am in old dingy barnwood trying to find a door opposite the one I entered. You have to have been born here to naviagate this trail.

A young clerk offers moderate assistance, pointing out a dim path of light through indistinguishable fabric. I am most grateful, if only for her concession that my voyage is not utterly foolish.

A bunch of guys occur to me along the way. They know me, and one of them begins talking about the upcoming Dallas Cowboy season. That extra-point fumbler quarterback, Romo or something, his replacement is in camp. They all hope for great magic from the next maybe messiah.

I intended going out for high school football, even now, maybe as a postgrad. I was not able to make practice, but hope to. Maybe I can join these guys soon. They don't seem to blame me for not showing up. (The realtime football team looked down on any guy not suffering their idiot grind with them.)

My dream as always settles into a contented acceptance of an interesting trip rather than any fond anticipation of its happy conclusion.