The Old Blog in the Desert

I was sitting on my porch the other morning, trying to mind my own business and coax a little peace out of the day, when my mind decided to cough up a memory I hadn’t asked for. That’s the thing about memories, they pop up like stray cats: uninvited and unpredictable.

See, about forty-eight years back, I’d been keeping company with a redhead. Sweet girl, quick laugh, freckles like somebody spilled cinnamon on her.

And she came with a sense of abundance. I’m talking about the sort of abundance you don’t really discuss in polite company, but there it is, life is full of folks with quirks, and hers happened to be a hairy one.

Anyway, I’d watched an old Kansas video before bed the other night, don’t ask me why. Probably one of those late-evening “I’m only gonna watch one more clip” decisions that leads you straight into the shadowy territory of the algorithm.

So I tucked in afterward, feeling nostalgic about denim jackets and bad hair choices. Well then, somewhere between one REM cycle and the next, my brain decided to tie my long-ago redheaded sweetheart to a rock anthem in a way I’m still not sure I’ll ever fully recover from.

In the dream, everything was how it used to be. The soft hum of cicadas outside the window, moonlight slanting through the blinds, and that musical little laugh.

But dreams don’t follow logic, and mine certainly didn’t. Right at the moment things got, well, let’s say sentimental, the Redhead’s underthings flew off, and suddenly, she looked right at me and said, “Carry on, my wayward son…”

Do you know what it feels like to be startled awake by classic rock? It’s like getting spiritually slapped with a guitar solo.

I shot straight up in bed, heart racing. I sat there blinking into the dark, wondering whether I needed a glass of water, a cold shower, or an exorcist. By the time I stumbled into the kitchen at 3 a.m. for coffee, I was muttering to myself like a man twice my age.

So that’s how I ended up sitting on the porch, pondering life’s cruel humor and wondering why my brain, after all these years, still has access to that particular file. You’d think memories would have the decency to fade like old jeans.

But no, sometimes they come roaring back with a soundtrack. And as for Kansas, well, I think we’re gonna have to take a little break, that band and me, maybe listen to something less risky at bedtime.

Something soothing, safe, neutral, like whale sounds, then again, knowing my luck, I’d end up dreaming about Jonah.