Tuesday
It started strangely. At 4BK, a place of my employment forty years ago. Problems of dead air. The techs at the transmitter (as if they were permanently stationed there) filled the dead air with marching music. The Powers That Be would soon descend on those responsible. There is no greater sin in radio than Dead Air. It seems that the culprit was me. The boss, still the same one forty years later but no older, wanted to blame Mike Goldman. Why was I pleased? I’d worked once with his Dad, Grant. The boss thought this amusing. Said he’d heard stories . I told him one about having my shoes stolen. Dreams are like that. Snatches of memory. Mixed with lines from yesterday’s reading. Tossed with unresolvable dreads. Judy is sleeping in the next room. Practical considerations since her knee replacement two weeks prior. No steps between that room and the ensuite. This house has 48 steps. She counted them. Her eyes are open when I lean on the doorpost. “I had to pai...