thoughts catapulted by carrots and bleu cheese dip 1 and please don't laugh, I'm serious at least half the time, never less than that when I'm eating for my health. 2 I had a dream last night. We were watching my father's football team before our hike up a mountain trail, in a bar or restaurant. We talked politics but nothing changed: certainly not my arguments, nor his mind. We fight, I think to communicate because love is not a word that he can speak - at least that's the side that I relate. 3 my daughter asked with her mysterious voice (that's how I knew it was a test) what sense would I least regret to lose? I did my mental arithmetic: first eyes, than ears, then taste. At last I imagined myself unable to feel heat, ice, silk, skin tearing across the pavement as I fell from my bike - but I knew enough not to select touch. "We all picked smell" and I agreed that was the best if any one had to be given up. 4 I used to hate bleu cheese dressing, the crumbled lumps of white with bluegreen mold interlaced throughout, but it, like so much else, is an acquired taste. (time for a sip of coffee now before it cools) 5 somewhere in my brain complex thoughts keep percolating - what if a word could do justice in a murder case or make a man begin again to love his wife? Could I dare to write if ? if ? if ? is that really what I want? lets pretend it works. I'll string some words and tell me please if they bring you a woman's tears falling on her pillow at night making a wet spot by a cheek that's scarred and rough instead of soft. you want to know what makes the tears? but I resist. causes make no difference is my belief. perhaps the dog has died at last, perhaps her hip joints hurt too much to sleep, perhaps small creatures in her sheets have sent a million prayers for salt and she's their angel dispensing gifts. no matter, because, in truth, there were no tears for her to cry tonight. 6 (time to reheat my cup, 45 seconds should do the trick) I'm tired of carrots and bleu cheese dip, and 30 seconds was more than enough. 7 my father was beaten as a child. fists to the face that sort of thing. 8 tonite's the night when we play cards at the neighbors house next door to ours. we are a matched set. one child each in 8th and second grade. two pairs and both will be banished to the basement for nintendo games or videos or whatever trouble they get into before someone screams to spoil it all. upstairs, we'll make small talk while everyone munches on less fat snacks. during a pinochle game I'm sure we'll discuss the latest news about our friends across the street. how well they're holding up or not. about the bedroom shrine they made for a firstborn son not coming home again. we'll sympathize as each trick is played and bids are made. no doubt listen more that we usually do to all the basement noise below. 9 he doesn't blame my grandfather (so he says) and I hear of how at 17 he almost killed the man from someone else. with us, he used his belt to beat our beds when we were kids and made us scream fake agony for his wife's sake. don't tell he said. and neither will I. 10 a nice round number I think and a good place to contemplate what's going on around me: the tv son zoned out on the couch. the daughter making bump-bump-thump somewhere else. my dog's asleep. so pretty when she is (like now) curled up, paws bent and head reclined to show the gray that underlines her lower jaw. but things will change. they're changing as I type. I can't keep up. 11 the last thing heard before I awoke: you'll never know how wrong about all this you are.