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There was no reason for me not waking up and feeling like an idiot. There was some sort of residential fire in this apartment located on the side of a steep hill, and I was driving a fire truck to find a location near the fire. When I drove the truck down a steep incline that ended in this guy's driveway, it was no where near the apartment on fire. I couldn't turn around and go back up the embankment, and I couldn't back up the way I'd come. I was stuck and the original fire in the apartment was still apparently blazing.
The guy who owned the apartment I drove the fire truck down to was shaving, and acting like I wasn't in his apartment running around like a chicken with it's head cut off. I was in an extremely embarrassing situation, and nobody cared. It's as if I were the only one there. Later, when I walked back up the hill to survey the situation, there was a convenient road that lead right to the fire, and other firemen had put it out. Nobody said anything to me.
I've never had anything to do with fire trucks. I was trained in boot camp in the Navy about how to work fire hoses on ships. Other than that the only thing I remember other than seeing fire trucks race up and down the road with their sirens screaming, was playing with a toy truck on the front porch of a house we rented in this small village. The primitive volunteer fire truck was being driven around the only block in town with excited firemen clanging the truck's warning bell and turning the handle of the mechanical siren to announce the end of World War Two. The crowd went wild!
What I wrote yesterday about dancing and getting attention for myself was interesting to me. I never have understood that aspect of my life too well. Maybe I can gain some understanding writing about this approach. In the past, I've written about how I admired charismatics and how they could get people to forget their normal precautions and do extraordinary things they normally didn't think they could or would do. I wanted to be just like them.
When this would happen, in the past, I found myself just as flabbergasted that it happened because of me as the people who found it happening to them. I don't think I'm really that great a dancer or even a singer. Of course, I like to think I'm pretty good, but I've never considered that strongly that my way of doing these activities was that much different than the way other people did the same thing. The only real difference was probably my enthusiasm. It's not enthusiasm so much for what other people do, but for what I do. It works in such a way that it's a self-contained drive that forces me to exhibit it in just the way I move, but not necessarily at my own volition.
It can happen when I'm sitting still. I don't have to be moving at all for this energy to affect other people's behavior. In fact, I've always moved slower than most people. When I played sports I was usually the slowest runner doing practice laps. When I boxed I was never known for my footwork. I'd move out to the center of the ring and wait for my opponent to come get knocked out. I was known for having fast hands, not feet.
Odd, how it co-me-s back to my hands, and now, in my dotage, my hands are the most debilitated of all my arthritic joints. Yet, the very few people I'm around physically still seem poised on waiting for me to do or say something that will motivate them to do extraordinary things. I could be fooling myself about this, however, it's not all that unusual for me to think nothing in this regard has changed. It probably hasn't.
I don't know what to do in the interim between the times this happens, but when it's ti-me for me to do my stuff it always seems to work, and people still get mad at me for creating a sense of urgency when it is not apparent to them that such an urge is required. They seem to get mad at me because they can't stop themselves. It's not my fault. I'm innocent, I tell you, like a newborn baby without no bad habits.
Making people get goosey is not much to brag about. For some, it's downright irritating. For others, they take to it like a child who gets picked up and swung around or thrown up into the air by an adult. "Do it again, Daddy, do it again!"
The low pressure air system that's moved in right over our heads is nothing new. It holds the traffic sounds from the State Road a couple of miles away down close to earth as if the cars and trucks were just outside my door. The loudspeakers on the church on that same busy road playing the sounds of a bell announcing that it's eight o'clock, is loud and kind of obnoxious. Sometimes they play pop music over that same system. Assholes.
If it was autumn the smoke coming out of the chimney of the tenant houses on the back side of the open fields would only rise just so high, and then form a layer that would hover at the same elevation the low pressure system would hold the smoke down to. Many of the old shotgun-style tenant and mill houses are gone now, and the wood stoves and fireplaces that produced the smoke are gone too.
The do-gooders were ashamed to allow that some people worked as laborers and heated their homes with fire wood. Now, instead, they're concerned with everybody's carbon footprint. Some people just can't be satisfied that there will soon be so many humans trying to have a place of their own to do as they will, that only a nuclear holocaust will resolve the problems of all the kazillions of spirits throughout the universe wanna have their own human body. Like angels dancing on the head of a pin.
It's a matter of memory. Humans forget the dead past. They don't recall that there is more of their me than they can sensorily perceive. The fact that there has been millions of efforts to create worlds and space ports like Earth previous to now, and each time they get over-crowded and we end up destroying them to make each of our tribes victorious. The mushroom shaped clouds and the rocket ships they think is needed to find another place like Earth to settle is already here. The end is near. Selah
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