I promise to node something real real soon.
Meanwhile, strange and strangely vivid dreams continue to visit me.
I am younger, late teens or early twenties, time-traveling once more, and involved in a stage play about World War II and the Blitz. The play occasionally becomes the actual war.
Some years later and in some other dream-reality I am attending some other event about which I can recall nothing now. D and at least one of D's sisters was present, along with their “mother,” supposedly. The woman in the dream in fact does not resemble D's mother at all.
Then Christmas comes. The weather varies wildly. At one point it's clearly summer, whatever the calendar says. Downtown we're having a cold time of it. The snow is sparse, but it crunches underfoot. Somehow I'm crossing a town by passing through all of its churches. One place of worship resembles a highway stop in maybe Wisconsin. Another is clearly Anglican, very High Church, with a fine and decorous procession, the Archbishop, male priests and some unidentified female rank, with red and white costumes, hats from another century. Some don't like the idea of me being in the procession, but the Archbishop says I represent the common folk. A gay priest turns his head my way and makes remarks about oral sex, using the crudest terms possible.
At another religious establishment I encounter two young girls, perhaps nine or eleven years of age, who sing a song about how they prefer Walt Disney adaptations and the theme park view of history and culture. "It's our own tradition," they sing, merrily, merrily, and encourage everyone to embrace the Happy and the Shallow.