Strange dreams

It’s been a while since I had one of my usual narrative-style dreams, most of which involve a fairly (for dreams) reasonable story.

This one I don’t remember much of, except that someone had given me a box of long cigars with a graphite rod down the center of each. They were considered suitable for persons with logorrhea, who babble on and on and on. (That’s appropriate, at least, and I am not going into symbolism, thank you. And yes, the word “logorrhea” was actually in the dream!)

As you smoked them, the graphite rod emerged and you could write ’til you’d worn the graphite down to the tobacco. Repeat the process, and voila! You’d written… well, a lotta words, doubtlessly like the monkeys who didn’t write Shakespeare.

That segued into an old high school friend, Mary H., and I trying to find a good Mexican restaurant that served proper sopaipillas–not the fried flour tortillas or fried chunks of freezer bread so often passed off as sopaipillas, but the real deal, the ones we grew up eating, the ones that puff up into perfect containers for honey or a cinnamon-sugar mixture. (I can’t even find a decent picture on the Internet! Yeezles!)

Sadly, I woke up before we found one. I may have to dig out my old recipe, which came from Ramona Ortiz. Yes!

Posted by wordsmith

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