A restaurant dream.  I bark, 'go away' at two guys who're no good who always like to drink late and get stupid, from another restaurant years ago, and surprisingly they turn around and leave after climbing only a few steps.  It's ten of time to shut her down anyway, but a slight guilt runs through.  In another situation, a couple has sent one steak back, and now wants something done about the replacement, and at the end, I can't understand what they guy really wants, and I can't seem to find a way to make the computer system work so I can print out his check.

The brain is in cleaning mode, washing itself, ridding trapped anxieties and worries and things stuck in its impressionable sponge of muscle blood memory.


On a day off the psyche has shifted.  I dream of being late, 'yet again,' for a gathering, as I try to get a plate of food together, and a beer for my brother, the expensive kind he likes, coming with my tray and my father is standing already delivering his talk about the life of education, of how being an alumnus makes one a person of significance.  Another sore spot in my brain.

My father had a wonderful rapport with his students.  That was the main thing I saw to his teaching style.  There was almost a sense of being startled in them when he'd open a conversation.


I'm sore at the end of the week, deciding whether to write privately in long hand in a notebook, or be optimistic enough for this venue.  I'm a stoic, and yet seem to sense getting little more than crumbs from the dinner table of life during my work week.  A town needs those who provide rapport, but the essence of the work I do doesn't show on any spread sheet attributable.