I'm running short of reading material out here. Recently, though, I found a tattered 1961 copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Its celebrated preface:
"Notice: Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot."
After I'd read it last night, I chuckled at remembering an episode of Cheers. In it, Woody Harrelson comes into the bar dressed as Samuel Clements and recites those lines dead-on, puffing on an old corncob pipe.
I loved Cheers. Isn't it funny how our minds work? (More on that to follow.)
I have recently discovered that there are few greater tortures than being forced to listen to other peoples' iPods. Really. A rule of thumb: for every song you recognize and appreciate, there will be dozens more that will make you cringe.
Of course, some music is better than none. Right? Nah... silence is often preferred.
We have flown missions for seven consecutive days. This is in violation of all kinds of safety rules, but much like anything else in the military, there are the ever-ubiquitous waivers. And oh, how we've been waived of late. Of course, we're doing good things, but man alive! we are tired.
A story, though, to illustrate life out here: having returned from a ten-hour mission yesterday (or was it today?) we all raced to our tents and crashed. Just crashed. Before doing so, of course, we "understood" that we'd not have to depart again for at least another twenty-four hours (as crew-rest issues, the non-waiverable, waiverable rules of which I've just spoken were interfering.) Giddy, we were, with the thought of being able to catch up on sleep, to do laundry, to check email, to eat warm meals, to just chill. A short five hours after falling asleep, though, I was shocked awake by Joey, our crew chief, peering over my Deliverance-inspired bedsheet "privacy curtain" and saying, "Justin, we gotta go. No mission brief. Just get your shit together and get out to the plane."
There was good reason for us being totally screwed (again), but my emotional response was made worse for the fact that I was having a dream.
A vivid dream. Lurid, even.
Oh. My. God.
It was that good.
I almost never remember my dreams. (Regardless of the circumstance of my waking.) I almost wish I didn't remember my dream today (or was it yesterday?).
She didn't have a name in my dream... well, of course she had a name, I just don't know what it was. (In the interval, I've since decided to name her Sophie.)
Warning! The recounting of my dream, to follow, is of perhaps graphic detail. You will likely learn more about me than you had ever intended.
Sophie was at the mirror, and I approached her from behind. Perhaps she was preparing to wash her face -- I don't know. Her auburn hair spilled over the collar of her crisp white button-down shirt and fell to the small of her back, and she smelled clean and happy and like the Sun, even from a distance.
She was barefoot, and the skin of her legs was taut, flawless. Her panties were barely visible below the hem of her shirt, and I could see from the mirror that her bra was absent; the shirt was unbuttoned, and its sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.
She was small, very feminine. Perhaps a size 2, or even a zero. In a hug, the top of her head would have rested easily beneath my chin, and her nose in the warm hollow below my throat.
I approached her from behind, and lightly placed my hands on her hips. I raised them slowly from her waist and brought them together at her abdomen. I reached between her arms to lightly cup each breast. They fit perfectly in my palms, and I could feel her nipples grow against them. I drew deep, contented breaths from my nose perched at the nape of her neck, and I felt her push against me. She was warm, and delighted.
I had just climaxed, and I rested atop her, prone, my elbows supporting me. Our legs still snaked around one another, and I could feel the top of one her feet against the bottom of one of mine. A swelling of emotion rose inside me, and I took her face in my hands, sweeping away her hair. I stared as forcefully and as deeply into her eyes as I could -- it was with purpose, I wanted her to feel me seeing her -- and I told her, "You are the most beautiful person I have ever known. I love you more than I ever thought I could love another person. More than I ever knew was possible."
Silently, she turned her head to the side, and a tear erupted from her eye and traced its path along that perfect nose, spilling onto her cheek.
And then I woke up.
Who is she? Why is she crying?