I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Again, last night, more dreams of my past. I don't want to dream of my past. It's gone.

Oh, it's nice to remember. But that's the problem. Lately, I've been spending too much time, "remembering." I don't want to do that.

The odd thing is, is that the memories I have now, are so completely different than anything I'd ever had before--and, stranger still, much more mundane. When things were better, when my parents were still alive, when I still had a "proper" home, a hometown, a solid place in this life, my memories were of special moments, happier times. I didn't dwell overly much on the miserable times--the fights, the silences, the humiliations.

Now, when I think back on my past, I remember the little things--totally insignificant, in some respects: shopping at woolworth's, mowing the lawn, lying on my bed reading a book or playing with my toy cowboys, waiting on a foggy morning for the school bus, mum making dinner in the kitchen, dad sitting in his chair reading the paper, sis and that daft stuffed cat she won at the church fair--and how it reeked of the perfume she doused its head with. totally random, meaningless stuff--helping mum at the library, walking home from a trip down to the village, walking along the rail tracks, the sound of the school bus as it came grinding up the long hill, before stopping at our street, the look and smell of the bright, bright green grass in springtime, in the field next door to our house. Totally, utterly insignificant.

And it's more than just memories, now--much more. It's feelings, as well--deep seated stirrings of emotion--I can also remember how each moment felt, if not exactly what I was thinking--it's almost like traveling back in time to the exact second the moment happened...it's, sometimes nice, but more often than not, for some reason, uncomfortable. Because I've never had this before.

I don't want to dwell on the past too much--it's over, it's gone, it's dead. So why am I, now--even in my dreams at night? I don't know. I just don't.

I grew up adoring westerns--TV westerns, old western films, didn't matter. I played cowboys, dreamed cowboys, even dressed cowboy--and have a few pics to prove it.

I really wish Hollywood would do some classic westerns again. Modern westerns have become a bit dry--more into showing off how macho the young stars are, and how "realistic" the setting is, rather than focusing on traditional western plots--you know, the one's that worked so well, Hollywood was churning them out on a regular basis from the mid-1900's to the mid-1970's.

But now, Hollywood is remaking a classic western film: Indians, cowboys, a lone stagecoach in the dessert, the 7th Cavalry, the whole works, sadly tho', it's a little "low" budget...

Just saw this podcast on YouTube, and oh--darn! I missed this!

There I was, in Lake George, probably stuck in my little laundry room at the Travelodge, (if it was after late July)--if it was before then, I was either still working at the Saratoga Racino, tossin' rubbish bags and stuff, or out looking for a new job.) But, if it was after late July, I was, most likely, in the back lot of the motel, folding towels like an auton--and there they were, the Doctor Who team--James Strong, Phil Collinson, et al, less then 200 miles south of me. (Smacks forehead) I'm telling you--it kills me, knowing that--I would have loved watching these guys filming. Darn (kicks the dirt with her naff old shoe) darn.

So Flame has gotten back most of her fur, now, and to keep it looking nice, I comb her.

I use a special cat brush with fine metal teeth. At first, she whined (oh yes, she whines EXACTLY like a human child would--seriously, she does.) It was, "Noo-! I don' wanna' mummy!" Now, she begs for it.

She sits up in my lap, and I gently comb the top of her head, and she tilts her head back, relaxes her ears, shuts her eyes tightly closed--even her mouth drops open a bit, and she's just in a state of utter bliss.

And now, she's got this new thing, where, when I'm done, she want to play with the comb--or rather the comb's handle. I've no clue what about the handle/comb fascinates her, but it does. She bats it around and chews one the rubber grip of the handle. Guess I do waste my money sometimes, on cat toys, ey? But then, Flame will play with my socks, my shoes, mum's old comforter that's made of some slippery synthetic material, my Ace bandage after I've removed it--she'll drag that around the living room--last night, she grabbed some popcorn out of the bowl by my chair--ate two, and played with the other one. Unlike my two bhoys, Flame will play with just about anything. But then, girls are smarter, yes?

"Waugh! 900 years of time travel, and I never knew Daleks could fart!"

The Bodysnatchers

Chapter 10: Sound Bite

The Doctor looked proudly at his screwdriver. He grinned impishly at Martha. “What is this chapel made of?” Martha shrugged. “I don’t know…limestone?” “Riiight!” The Doctor exclaimed. “And the thing I love about limestone is, is that it resonates beautifully. It’s made of up stone quartz crystals. Resonate these crystals just right, and the whole structure falls down on us--which we don’t want to have happen, do we? So---“ he paced around the walls, “---what else can we do with this knowledge, eh?” Martha frowned in thought and said, “I don't know. Change the resonance?”

The Doctor jumped up and strode over to the mysterious alcove. “That doesn’t explain what he’s doing here, why they’re using poison marsh gas from Draxil , why they’re killing innocent humans and snatching dead bodies or what his so-called master is up to--and there’s only one way to find out the answers to all these questions.” So saying, the Doctor pulled aside the curtain.