Dreams are not enough

Last night I dreamed that I was walking through the streets of Florence. It was dark and the medievel buildings felt close around me, but I felt content. I was back, nearly two years after I had last been there. I'm not sure what it was that took me back. True, I've been obsessed with Italy in general and Tuscany in particular since trips took me there in recent years. It could have been the Italian wine guide given to me for Christmas that fed my unconscious mind. It could also have been that I fell asleep reading Brunelleschi's Dome, about the architect who, in the early 1400s, figured out how to put the huge dome on the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the Duomo, in Florence.

In any case, it could be that I would rather be anywhere but here. Could my interest in the pickle factory be waning? Is that possible? I'm starting to wonder whether the old song may have a point. You know, the one that says How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm (Once They've Seen Paree).

Okay, different city, but Europe all the same. Until I was 40 years old, I'd never been off of the North American continent. The travel bug has truly bit me now, and much harder than my budget allows. I'm also still getting through Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad, a wonderful and detailed account of his travels to Europe and the Middle East in 1867. And I also took a break from that to read The Colosseum, a somewhat scholarly dissertation on the myths and truths about the venerable Flavian Amphitheatre in Rome. Yes, I also dream about Rome, particularly about the Pantheon and the food. The Pantheon was a building I learned about in detail during a Roman archaeology course in college. To finally stand in the building itself, preserved for nearly 2,000 years, was a moment beyond words.

But enough. For now I have to think more about pickles.

But is it all worth it?

It's a free day here at Domus Aluminus. With a day off from the pickle factory, I hit Mallville for some last-minute shopping opportunities. Awful traffic. Awful people. I did what I had to do, and then I got out. Back to the mansion to finish chipping ice from my driveway on this unexpectedly warm and sunny day.

Tonight, it's a party at the home of the brine supervisor. With a designated driver to safely convey me home, it would be very tempting to overindulge in keeping with the excess of the holiday period. But instead, I'm working the Bob Cratchit shift at the pickle plant on Saturday so I'll have to keep intake to a more moderate level. Not that I've ever been a particularly good boozer, anyway. I think it would be impossible for me to become an alcoholic because of the awful way I usually feel the next day even after moderate alcohol poisoning. So no big loss.

Tomorrow, it's likely dinner with the heiress after work, followed by the presentation and opening of extravagent gifts. It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Giving a listen to one of my all-time favorite CDs.

Today I Bathed in the Fountain of Eternal Euthanasia

As is frightfully obvious, this is the first post to this web diary. And as usual, I find myself with nothing to say, nothing, at least, that anyone would want to hear. I swear that someday, I will fall, crack my head open, and a deafening rush of words will spew forth from the chasm, flattening entire city blocks with their wit and rage. Images so sharp and clear that they shatter the eyes of unfortunate onlookers will appear around my poor shattered head. Those words and pictures will suddenly inhabit the very souls of those who did not have the sense to turn away and cover their eyes and ears, and their faces will melt away, leaving bare skulls to roll from their helpless and utterly insufficient spines.

But until then, my friend, pull up a chair and have a beer.