I have heard that acorns are falling. I have noticed hostas gone to seed. I have seen fallen hickory nuts, the husks still tight to the nutshell. During my weekend drives in Shiawassee County, I have seen fields mown and mown hay bundled up in bales. I wonder if I'll find fresh sweet corn and blueberries this weekend. The nights grow cooler and I am dressing in blue jeans at night. Last night, I comfortably wore a tee shirt, but for how much longer. I am loving the cafes and lounges, gloriously populated by women in sundresses. I'll see a bumper crop of them tonight, anticipating two parties, one to which I was invited. Another, a friend has promised to make arrangements with the master of the manse, who has a guest list and a bouncer. I feel no real need to arrive where I am specifically uninvited. It's same as sitting at head of a table without a namecard there. I had picnic food for lunch, a local bank providing hot dogs, chips, ice cream, soda, entertaining children with a comical clown telling a pretty good stack of jokes, making balloon animals. That picnic had an open invitation to the public. I like an open invitation, on that I do rely. I like a prepaid reservation. It's the only way to fly. Is that song really by Santana?
I am not recalling my dreams nor sleeping through the night. Here's one from last week: I am sitting in a green RV, recreational vehicle. It is steering itself. I should be its driver. It's been painted green, the exterior painted by Earl Scheib. It's close to the color my step grandfather had his old station wagon painted. On the highway, the steering is reliable, but the RV scrapes concrete barriers left and right, not making horrible scratches in the side paint. I check the scrapes at stops, mumbling, "Yes, it's really nothing". I imagine myself on a journey so long, my vehicle becomes my home.
I haven't been super drowsy today, which is a blessing. I slept only six hours last night, so a drowsy spell have been averted by I cannot say.
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