If this is just a computer program that we are all living in

If this is just a computer program that we are all living in…and the “real reality” is something much more than this, abiding in a higher dimension, then why wouldn’t it be beyond the realm of possibility that we mean next to nothing to our Creator? If such a Creator decided to just pull the plug one day and eradicate everything, how different would this be from some programmer who decided to abandon their work and leave the machine and program running–and one day it just ends or another programmer comes along to shut it off and make something else?

I have a few extra-sensory experiences of being a part of Love and something bigger than myself that was good. I don’t think I am able to get to faith in an all-loving God solely from scriptures. Even Jesus seems to be constantly threatening those of us who aren’t being very faithful at the moment he returns.

Rationally speaking, it seems most convenient to be an agnostic rather than an atheist. The evidence of misery in our world overwhelmingly points to a kind of God who isn’t interested in interfering in our affairs on a regular basis. There seem to be miracles only at the local level, and they are impossible to replicate. What is the intention of a God who would create a world that behaves a certain way, with certain rules we’ve come to accept as Truth from scientific inquiry, but this same God lives and moves and breathes (your ways are not my ways) in a realm of entirely different laws and “stuff.”

In other words, a computer programmer God. Which, in my estimation, can be vastly more superior to the Deist watchmaker God, but still could be better understood this way.

The reason for approaching God this way comes from watching people like Elon Musk and others talk about designing technology to break them out of the Matrix or keep them from aging. The problem with their thinking is, if you are utterly and completely stuck in a different system than the one in which your Creator lives and moves, you are ultimately at the mercy and whim of your Creator to continue to live, move and breathe in your own system, no matter how much you perfect technologies to upload your consciousness to longer-lasting materials, and redownload them every fifty years into cloned bodies of your original body. At the end of the day, if the Programmer turns off the machine, then that’s the end.

It seems to me that some of these guys, like other New Agey mystical types throughout history, including Crowley and so many would be gurus, actually believe that they can somehow meditate or perform magical rituals to ascend to a God consciousness in which they too become gods. This would be patently absurd–like artificial life teeming in a network like the Internet that becomes self aware and attempts to break out of the Internet into our reality and become human.

If I start from the premise of: I am in some kind of system that was created by a Higher Intelligence, and I am wholly incapable of ever being such an Intelligence, then my purpose should be found solely within the body and brains I was born with. In other words, attempting to augment myself, even through a technology like this one–writing–is getting me away from my ability to directly carry out my mission here on earth. What’s more, my mission may be utterly banal, like passing on my DNA.

On the other hand, if I am benefiting from technology that was wrought from the use of an intellect provided by a Creator, then it would seem to me that I should be capable of incorporating such technology in my overall quest to carry out my mission here on earth.

Unfortunately, this isn’t exactly carrying me where I wanted to go–where I want to go is to a place of utter simplicity–I live a life that is pared down in every way to just the very essential things I should be doing, and I learn to not get caught up in diversions and distractions.

Seminary has been good for me

Seminary has been good for me, though I am loath to consider myself as one of those individuals who come to seminary looking to be fixed. I don’t think of myself as being any more or less broken than anyone else. I may never be the perfect sort of pastor, but I don’t see why I can’t become successful in at least a small capacity of loving and helping others in a disinterested sort of way–by disinterested I mean something like being altruistic, not concerned with how I am paid back, if ever.

Maybe I won’t ever be a pastor or chaplain, but I certainly would like to find that church which really does need more helpers to sustain its life and community and presence in the world. I don’t need to be the star of the church recognized in every bulletin or seen at the front of the church every Sunday with my hands in everything, sitting on every committee and trying to help out in every single way imaginable. But likewise, I don’t want to raise my hand fervently as someone who wants to do more and be a part of more and then get called upon once a year to deliver a bucket of ice and few jugs of tea to a committee of the really important and recognized people of the church. It’s kind of the same thing with life and places I’ve worked at–if you ask to help too much people become suspicious of you and either avoide asking for your help or they decide you are a subhuman worthy of being used up in every imaginable way.

Seminary has taught me a lot about slowing down and meeting people in various modes of time and space that aren’t necessarily set to a calendar full of blocked-off meetings and walled-off moments where they are deigning to give you thirty minutes of their extraordinarily precious and valuable time. There are still people out there who will pause and have a human conversation with you without tapping their foot impatiently because they have somewhere more important to be.

I think that I will come out of here with my faith much stronger, because it has been so rigorously and thoroughly tested. What remains is a deep love for Christ and a desire to be in a more profound relationship with Christ and have a receptivity to how the Spirit moves. What is gone is my sense of a need to be a part of a given denomination, or carefully build up a social justice resume by being seen on Facebook doing highly visible things. What only lingers a little is a sense that I can somehow find something of deeper meaning by reading more and more books. I do think that books are ultimately just distractions if they become the go-to when you are seeking to have a more meaningful and thorough relationship with Christ in your everyday life. Books before prayer, books before communion with others and taking communion, books before worship, books before the Book, books about everything tangentially related to the time and place of the appearance of Jesus Christ, but never a moment of just putting all of the books aside and talking plainly and directly to Christ while reading some of His words from the Bible.

The honest and immediate nature of the act of being seized by the face of the other–Levinas–is a great gift from the seminary. This is much closer to how I think Christ intended us to respond to and interact with others as Christians. Being a better Christian is ultimately about becoming a better human being in all of the most virtuous and ethical ways imaginable, without getting caught up in human-generated laws, norms, codes and straitjacket ways of being that can drive you crazy no matter which side of the political aisle or what brand of Christianity you attempt to align with.

The gift of a few over-the-counter meds

The gift of a few over-the-counter meds like dextromethorphan and doxalymine succinate: an empty head and a good night’s sleep. My dreams are mostly forgotten, they come at me in fragments and shards–pieces to tiny to cobble together into anything meaningful.

The construction site next door is slowly waking up as it’s a Saturday morning. The baby kept the mom up last night with barfing. I hope I didn’t give him anything I had last week. I’ve been sick more in the past two plus years than the rest of my adult life combined.

I’ve put my Greek studying on hiatus until Sunday afternoon, to give my brain a rest from that and so I don’t burn myself out. Though, it would seem that my obsessive side just wants to plunge back into it.

The Windows machine is still updating, it has been for an hour. I am pushing videos for the baby to watch through my phone to the Chromecast, and that always seems to be a little dicey with our connection here.

This Austin spring has been rather mild. We haven’t yet had any days that I would describe as being especially hot.

I had my second interview with S last week. I don’t really know how it went–what kind of impression I left upon the guy. I’ve been out of the marketing automation system I would be using for so long that I can only speak in general terms about its capabilities and what I did.

I have really struggled with the notion that I am someone who is putting his hand back on the plow–one not fit for the kingdom of heaven. However, I also don’t have a lot of faith in my faith, anymore, if that makes any sense. I don’t trust the part of me that thinks he is in some kind of more direct communication/receptivity from a higher power.

I believe that God loves me, and wants what is best for me, but I think maybe that a lot of what I do here on earth is for me to figure out. At the end of the day, family is always going to come first over any sort of career. If the family’s health, well-being and future comfort is better served by me working in a role I mostly came to despise but pays more money than anything else I could attempt, I have to consider such a role with practicality.

I am not especially stressed about it, though. I know it will be upsetting for some people here, and it will probably be more than a little stressful trying to find a new place to live in a short amount of time and readjust to the corporate world, but it could pay off much more fruitfully for my family in even the near future as in a few months from now.

Certainly, I am not considering doing anything un-American. If anything, I think most average folks who believe they are the wisest when they are really just filled with some average amount of common sense would say that I would have been better served to remain at any number of jobs I abandoned in the past and just toughed it out for a few more years before moving on. After feeling like I was completely imprisoned and shackled to my desk and the people at mce and to some degree uw, I became very obsessed with making sure I didn’t stay at any one job longer than I had to, and if any boss committed a dealbreaker while I was employed there, I would simply quit rather than put up with their shit indefinitely.

I may have taken such job-hopping to an extreme beyond what I should have…something in between the three years at uw and the often less-than-year at many subsequent jobs would have likely made more sense.

Gain access to a new thing

Gain access to a new thing. Imagine you are tiny, running around inside your brain, bumping into all of your thoughts and images…

frosted wheats, cheetos, maltballs, dutch oven pie, camping smells of camp chests full of bug spray and deoderant leaked out. suddenly, memories of summer camp. each year down in southern missouri. wandering off from the group into the forest for hours. finding baby deer and turtles. communing with nature.

i miss the natural world. why can’t i seem to get back to it?

what is this insistence on finding my way inside words?

imagining a triangle above my head, and me flitting about from corner to corner like a ping-pong ball stuck within the lines of the triangle. worn like a tricorner hat, a cheesehead hat.

why can’t they cut open a lower life form and extract all of its memories from its tiny little brain? if we are purely physical and material beings in this physical world, why is this such a difficult task for scientists?

where is the information really being stored?

Gain access to an old thing…return to what matters most.

Same path trod.
Same path as millions of others.
Same results.
Same conclusions.
Continued refusal to accept that this is all.
An invitation to sup with Christ.
Sit and dine with Christ, have a meal and conversation.
The love Christ outpours is overwhelming.
Christ ceaselessly empties the Spirit,
with no reservation, no holding back.
The outpouring of love is rooted in the communion.
The mixing of the Word, the Spirit with the urgent needs of the human animal.
The invitation to sup with Christ comes cutting
through a morass of desires to fill myself up with the pride of the vastly learned.
I continually forget that I am here because I am a follower of Christ, not a follower of human theories, theologies, modes of worship, approaches to exegesis, methods of textual criticism.
Meanwhile my spirit shrivels up, my soul gasps in great thirst
As I try to power myself ahead by brain and body alone.
Agape love is what remains after the dross is melted away.
I should never shy away from the flames when they come my way
Licking at my most precious pieces of Ego
I’ve erected in forms less stable than the shoddiest house of cards.
I should leap into the flames with all of my faith kept front and center
In all I think, say and do.
The flames will bring pain and sometimes uncertainty and even something worse–accedia,
But in the end the flames will burn away the pieces of Ego
Accruing like barnacles, clutching fast to an otherwise faithful boat
What remains will be the kind of vessel that can sail through any tempest.

Dream 1: Being hunted down by a repressive, fascist government

Dream 1: Being hunted down by a repressive, fascist government after I stabbed the #1 presidential candidate for this regime in the face with a broken bottle. I was saved by Morgan Freeman after being shot several times. This was probably the most drawn-out dream of the night and most realistic as being something that could possibly happen in real life. The landscape/geography of the area I was in didn’t resemble anything in real life, though I think it was supposed to cover a lot more territory than it really could have given the short distances I walked.

The fascist party in the U.S. was something like the Freedom Party or Liberty Party, but the only freedom you had was if you were white and ready to follow all of the single party’s rules, which were basically U.S. war fetish/conservative/jingoist/being white. There didn’t even seem to really be a capitalist system anymore, per se, as you couldn’t start a business unless you were part of the ruling party. So, it was totalitarianism at its worst from the 20th Century come to roost in the U.S.

However, the ruling party clearly hadn’t gotten good control over the entire country, and various organic groups were springing up to run separate economies which were mostly filled with people of color since most of the white people in the country had fallen in line with the Freedom Party in order to keep their jobs and houses. I was clearly opposed to the party’s primary presidential candidate, who was running unopposed. I pretended to be a big fan and member of the party who loved the candidate dearly (he looked and talked sort of like the dad from the TV show Frazier), and caught him by surprise in a men’s room somewhere before he was to give a speech. My only weapon was a bottle lying in the trash, which I smashed on the sink counter and rammed directly into his face and eyes, and then ran out of the bathroom like Ehud in the book of Judges did to Eglon.

I ran to one of the rogue communities, which truly acted as if they were free in how they ran their economies (which seemed to be a mixture of cooperative and small-business capitalism), and was hiding out when the fascist government sent the military to basically wipe everyone out. I took several bullets but managed to play dead and then sneak into a deep hole, but not before meeting Morgan Freeman, who told me to meet him back at his ranch way up north when I was able to get away successfully. Apparently, Morgan Freeman had some immunity from persecution being a celebrity. Most of the people in the community had died, and the military doused the place with gasoline and launched a flamethrower into it.

Those who got away streamed north into areas that were less penetrated by the government and military, and in the dream this entire part of the country was just streaming with people wandering around–a lot of people of color, but also people who had been sprung from prisons and mental institutions that the government no longer wanted to support in the territories that it had control of. I think the idea was similar to how the Native Americans were treated in real life–smoke ‘em out, push further away, and eventually once the government was ready and the unwanted people were contained, the idea was that all of them would be euthanized at once.

So, I was constantly being bothered by folks with mental problems as well as sex perverts, and people with chronic health problems and disabilities who needed assistance. Except, I had nothing to give, and I was in a pretty bad way myself. I finally got to a border that was being monitored by soldiers like the Berlin Wall before it closed for good, and had some kind of excuse that got me through into a territory that was even less controlled by the government. Morgan Freeman came down from his ranch way north (probably like in the upper parts of Canada) to meet me and take me to a doctor and some refuge.

Dream 2: A speech-making contest that was being attended by thousands of people. There were several stations for participants, and it seemed like the importance of it went beyond being just a contest or game–like we were competing for some kind of bigger prize. Even my son wanted to participate, and he was in the line behind me. When it got to be my turn to give my speech, I failed to give the previous one I’d given in rehearsal, which the coach had said was very good. I started talking about something else and didn’t know how to end it. Rhetorical craft seemed very important–perhaps like how people competed in Greco-Roman times. My first speech was something along the lines of how to speak clearly to the right audience, be it a crowd or over the telephone–a meta-speech of sorts, a speech on speechmaking. In the waking world, I am terrible at public speaking and have grown only modestly comfortable (ie, I don’t completely implode in anxiety) at it.

Dream 3: I received a bad grade from my OT professor that looked like the first bad grade I got on my theology professor, and the comments looked like the ones that the worship professor provided. Actually, the grade from the theology professor wasn’t bad, the test was poorly made and the professor knew it and padded the grading a lot. But, anyway, in the dream, I started to react to the test like I had reacted in the waking life. Except, there was something about needing to get home, and of course we (probably my wife and son and I though I don’t exactly remember) were located roughly around where my old elementary school was in real life and were trying to get home to my boyhood home. This seems to happen a lot in dreams–I end up located on the highway that runs parallel to the old elementary school a block away, and am trying to get home by walking or using a weird contraption or cutting through a dream neighborhood.

I am not sure if all these dreams where I start back near elementary school are trying to tell me something about some levels of maturity I have or not.

Meta notes on dreams…
I almost forgot the latter two dreams, and did indeed forget most of the content of them, in my effort upon final waking to remember the first dream.

Intent, intensity of focus, importance of a thing — could the mind be capable of seeing more about reality if it determined that it was necessary to focus “the more” — that which lies beyond the things it is commonly told to focus on? Could existence in this particular state itself be governed largely by an intensity of focus?

My ability to have those visions and moments of experiencing a higher reality may have come due to a sense of not needing to completely focus on this life, the life at hand. In other words, survival and the constant disparaging remarks I heard from people around me about realities beyond this one have prompted me to no longer focus on them (also to a large degree fear of them). When I was younger, I had parents who were taking care of my essential survival needs and so I had the freedom to let my mind not be nearly as present and attentive to this reality.

Even my focus on my aging self perhaps perpetuates the sense that my mind is becoming less capable.

A lot of dreams popped up after I stopped taking Mucinex DM regularly

A lot of dreams popped up after I stopped taking Mucinex DM regularly, though my sinuses have been blocked most of the time and inevitably, I will probably start being irritable again. Something in the DXM acts like an SRI, I think. You might think that DXM would give me crazy dreams, and I think it probably does, but I can never remember them upon fully waking–I just wake up with the impression of having had a lot of crazy dreams. I remembered these more fully upon waking, as I have most times that I’ve slept after stopping DXM from an extended period of taking it.

I’ve forgotten most of the dreams, though, since I woke up with a push to get us out of the house today. There was a dream about my son biting the dog, and the dog reacting in fear, and peeing on the floor, but my wife taking it as an act of aggression and stating that the dog was being territorial, and we needed to get rid of the dog. I got very angry at her in in the dream about this.

I don’t remember the rest of the dreams now, since we woke up and pushed to get out the door and come up here to Dallas today. The focus was more on getting out the door and making our way up I-35.

I think that a lot of the dreams have been sort of acting like entertainment, since I haven’t been able to get into watching shows and movies online, and my reading has mostly consisted of school assignments and reading poetry, rather than just purely entertaining fiction. My brain more or less works to entertain me while I sleep, and I don’t think that there is much meaning inherent in most of the dreams beyond that.

I’m starting to recall a dream that was sort of related to school–I think it involved my worship class teacher, whose style of teaching I mostly didn’t take to very well. In the dream, she’d asked for an assignment where we cut and pasted very specific items from a 1200 page book of topics varying from how to bake communion bread to endless slides of her vacations and mission trips. My attempts to paste the right items together weren’t met with approval, because I’d apparently mismatched my choice of communion bread with my choice of liturgical text. Suddenly, the bread was actually bread, and she was trying to line it up for me with cut-and-pasted text–literally cut and pasted as we used to do in the old days. There were several factors complicating this approach–I seemed to be under pressure from some kind of ultra-oppressive government to not get caught doing this and have it finished in a short period of time. I strangely did not fly into a rage about her request to change my choice of bread, as I seem to do often in dreams where I’m asked by a person in some position of authority over me to do something I don’t want to do.

There was a lot more vivid detail to the dream than that, but it’s not quite coming to me–some possible interactions with seminary or high school classmates, maybe my dad.

I kept thinking that I should have snagged my phone and jotted a quick note about the dreams to prompt my memory, but unfortunately, I didn’t quite get motivated to wake up to that degree–and my wife would probably also have wondered what I was doing, but she may have to get used to it–I’m running out of even marginally interesting things to write about.

The trip up I-35 was pretty breezy now that they have three lanes all the way up to Temple, and three lanes all the way from Waco pretty much to Dallas. Plus, it helped going at an off time of day and week. We got hit by a downpour once, and downpours in Dallas tend to turn everyone into timid drivers except for a few daredevils who want to prove how fearless they are and they will drive even worse than they regularly do.

I’m pretty much resigned to either moving on into Greek class, or possibly taking this final job possibility if they bother to call me back next week. I’m resigned to my world being what it is, and my level of intellect being what it is, and etc. The illusion that I was in charge of a lot of things that I really wasn’t has mostly come and passed. For some reason, the only writing I’ve really cared to read recently is poetry, though I still like reading about philosophy, if not directly from the philosophers themselves, which is usually a descent into dense brain pain.

I’ve started taking Rhodiola again. I remember it having nominal benefits before, but I don’t think I was patient enough with it. Since I’ve gotten better about trying these kinds of supplements for the long run, I’ve noticed that some of them do offer advantages, but you have to be patient with them–you can’t just pop a pill and suddenly feel great and have big, smart thoughts.

Today’s nap dream was about an ancient piano at a church I was attending. I continued to write children’s sermons and skits that saw the children interacting with the piano which was about to collapse and fall apart. Every time I did one of my children’s sermons, the childcare assistants would have to hover around the children who got up near the piano, to yank the kids out if the piano started to collapse. In real life, I’ve never written a children’s sermon, and my son was banging on my in-laws’ piano as I drifted off into sleep. In the dream, I was very proud of the way I continued to incorporate this dangerous piano into the children’s sermons, and I very much wanted to tell a fellow (real life) seminary student about it because I thought he would be impressed with it. The piano was scheduled for demolition, though, and I promised to give each child a piece of the piano after it was destroyed, along with some pie.

It continues the thunder heavily and rain, though I think it will probably pass shortly. There weren’t any real plans made to do exceptional things here in Dallas. Of course, Half Price Books always calls out to me, and I’d kind of wanted to go eat seafood somewhere, but the in-laws had already decided to order pizza, and I didn’t feel like making a thing about it.

Was out of sleep aid and there was not even the weaker Benadryl in the cabinet. Stayed up hearing the loud television and conversation until it ended whenever. Slept in fits all night.

Dreams: I decided to join the Army and become a professional boxer at the age I am in the waking life: 41. Other tough-guy dreams I forgot. One moment of waking into sleep paralysis, and hearing the weird way sound is refracted into whatever the sleep paralysis world is, and the humming. I started trying to be playful with whatever “demons” were in the room, so I clearly wasn’t in my right mind–inviting demons in or even attempting to interact with them is hardly anything I would want to participate in. I think I was trying to be a tough guy about realizing I was caught in sleep paralysis.

Other dreams–I was at the Dam for the old childhood lake, and they were offering a bunch of smoked ham. Not sure if there was significance in the rhymed words. People were debating on whether it was safe to eat or not, because it had been smoked in the side of a rock face.

Some extended engagement with random people, and then I found myself cleaning out a McDonald’s fry vat like I had to do in high school. My friend JK from HS opened the spigot and the grease ran out all over the floor. He never worked at McDonald’s in real life. He seemed rather unperturbed by what he’d done, even though I was furious. The fry vat somehow became part of the sink, and people started piling dirty dishes in it even as I was trying to clean it out and prepare it for brand new grease. Some people from seminary showed up and deposited their dishes and I got mad at them. I accused one of them of never engaging in conversation with me unless I initiated it. She was rather offended by this, and I felt the need to try to make amends with her.

There were a lot of other dreams as well, because I kept falling asleep and only staying asleep for a very brief period of time. For some reason, a lot of them have been about me trying to put myself in very masculine roles like the Army/boxing dream, but I generally don’t lose my temper and get destructive during the process.

I don’t feel especially tired this morning, like I should from having not had much sleep. I don’t know if the Rhodiola is working already, or I am just feeling the effects of not having any sleep aid or DXM in my system. Eventually, I start to grow more and more irritable about little things the longer I go without these. I already got kind of irked last night at dinner after a beer or two when my in-laws started talking about one of their friends’ son-in-laws, who apparently has consistently put his career over spending time with his son with the excuse that he can only make money by doing what he does on international engagements in places like Korea and Romania. Judging from his profession, he could in all likelihood still make pretty exceptional money anywhere he wants, if not doing exactly what he’s been doing, and have a hundred times more time available to spend with his son. I don’t know much about these people, but the little boy has had all kinds of eating disorders, that I would hazard to guess are from all of the stress he’s had to go through being moved from place to place without being able to spend time with his dad, who seemed mostly aloof and and distant from his son the one time I met them. His dad seemed to be like the Scottish version of the American jock–he pulled his American wife and son back to Scotland on the pretense of needing to be close to his own extended family, and then promptly moved them to an engagement in Romania. I think the guy just wants to be independent and do as he pleases while making a ton of money, and just be able to say he has a proper wife and kid. For all I know, I have completely misjudged the situation, but it seems like the priorities are out of whack enough as to be unsavory to hear about. A man who can’t spend time with his family–what did the Godfather say about that? From what it sounds like, neither the guy or his wife have jobs that would see them poor and broke in just about any city around the world. Choosing a million dollars a year vs. a quarter million and sacrificing 90% of the time you could be spending with your little boy seems to me to be a travesty.

I woke up last night with a massive sinus headache.

I woke up last night with a massive sinus headache. I lay in bed for a long time, hoping that I could just make myself go back to sleep and sleep it off, but that wasn’t happening. Then, my son got up and came into our room. I felt miserable, so I asked my wife to be up with him for awhile, thinking it was already at least 5:30, but it was only 3. So, she got up to help him go back to sleep, and I decided to take some Ibuprofen to help kill the headache.

After she’d gotten him back to sleep, I started to get really hot, and my stomach wasn’t happy at all with the Ibuprofen. Pretty soon, I was feeling so hot that I decided to sleep out in the living room away from the heavy comforter and extra body heat. But, then, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fight my stomach anymore. I got all feverish and sweaty, and barfed several times to the point where I was pulling up blood and gunk that didn’t look so great.

I finally was able to fall back asleep on the couch, and had this dream where I’d gone into an apartment I’d lived in before in the dream, and some guys had shot me up and I was dying. But, it turned out that I was a secret agent for the CIA, and this had been part of one of my missions. And so, as I was barely hanging on from several gut wounds, someone from the CIA came and told me that he had one more job for me. I got up with all these tubes in me and wrapped myself up as best as I could and went to the airport.

However, at the airport, I kept producing versions of my driver’s license where my name was misspelled and didn’t match the spelling on the boarding pass, so they wouldn’t let me on the plane. I guess because they didn’t want me to blow my cover, they were making me fly coach and making me have to figure out how to get on the plane. I tried to tell the lady at the ticketing desk that I was very important and on an important government mission without telling her that I worked for the CIA. Some guy said that they would have to see what they could do, and made me wait in a special area with other people who hadn’t been allowed on the plane. Eventually, the guy came back and told me that there was a special clause where if a 112-year old woman said it was okay for me to board the plane, then I could, because of a certain mystical tradition found in the lore of Homeland Security that gave precedence to whatever 112 year old women said. The guy said he would go to the nursing home where such a woman lived, and fetch her and bring her back.

While I was waiting for him to come back, my son showed up, and I hung out with him for a while. The man came back driving a shuttle bus from the nursing home, but the old lady wasn’t in it. He said that they couldn’t wake her up to bring her to the airport, and that they’d have to think of some other way to get me on the plane. I started wandering about the airport in hopes of finding a means of getting on the airport and lost track of my son. Eventually, I received a text saying to meet them at a special location several blocks north of the airport, which was now apparently in Kansas City, in a place roughly where my dad used to work instead of being anywhere near either of the airports in Kansas City. I was supposed to wait for a ride to the meeting place, but I started walking, and this is when I realized that I’d just left my son somewhere without paying attention to where I’d left him.

I didn’t seem to care–I just assumed that someone would take care of him, and started wandering up through these really rough neighborhoods where people were looking like they were going to kill me. I woke up realizing I still had many more blocks to walk.

I am not really going to speculate too much on what the dream might have meant. It may have had something to do with my obsession with what my life’s mission is supposed to be here on earth, and the fact that I suppose I might be called to do one more mission when I die before I am permitted to go up to heaven for good. I assume the airport represents a kind of waystation for passing in and out of a given life, and most of my dreams that consist of me attempting to fly somewhere generally see the attempts thwarted or aborted, or I make it onto the plane but there is still much left to be done before the plane can take off.

I don’t really know why I got so sick, except that I had probably swallowed too much mucus on an empty stomach, and was maybe a little ill from having drank too much beer, though I really didn’t think I’d had that much to drink last night.

I slept most of the morning, and even dozed a little in the afternoon, and I’m still tired.

I invited my cousin and aunt and their significant others to have lunch with us today in kind of an impromptu fashion. Occasionally, I feel the need to be sociable without waiting for people to invite me to do stuff. My lunch stayed down, thankfully, though I still feel kind of lacking in appetite–I mostly just ate it because it was there.

I’ve finished the last of the paperwork I had to turn in for things to do in the fall. The company I interviewed with last week hasn’t called me back, so I am starting to assume that there was no further interest there. I guess I’m going to have to start getting ready to accept that I’ve moved on to some new phase of life, though I have had these moments where simply making a lot of money, socking it away, and giving some of it to the poor sounds a lot better than trying to move into a job where I am helping others full time.

My old, selfish nature has all but consumed me again in the wake of seeing so many things not turn out as expected down here, and me starting to feel the squeeze of being middle-aged without much savings and having a little one to raise.