1443 shopping days until 220.127.116.11.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.
My dreams were wild last night. In one dream I was a British diplomatic attache/spy (no Bond, more Le Carre with a dash of Monty Python). The collective sent me on a mission to a provincial city in the Ukraine named Uri, no doubt to execute some skulduggery or other. The friend I refer to as “the other half of my brain” (Faithful commenters to the Tent Show know him as “Spike”) was my assigned partner in dreamtime espionage. Nobody seemed to notice that we didn’t have British accents.
Searching from room to room in what seemed to be a large abandoned warehouse in a desolate industrial district, Spike and I came upon room full of nuns “taking a meeting”–upwards of a dozen of them, variously standing and sitting around a long conference table, like a Last Supper of Penguins. Alas, they were not nuns like the infamous “nuns” I posted at the Old Tent Show on Nun of the Week, but middle-aged and older steel ruler types. Pope Ratzapper and entourage entered by another door shortly after we arrived. We told a few Catholic jokes like a latter day Lewis and Martin duo, and thence commenced to exorcise the Pope in the most cheerful way…
More adventures were had in the warehouse, and later we met with my “opposite number” in the back of a limo, discussing…assasination of various world leaders…? These days my dream retention is poor. The images evaporate like hoarfrost. There’s at least one more important detail I told myself to remember which I now cannot ahab from the depthless depths of my sleepy brain. If it breaches, I’ll get back to you.