and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

News? What news? There is no news here.

Nevertheless, we will report that not fit to print - just (barely) fit to (virtually) publish.

It got cold and started to snow here and, though I was fearing this eventuality - or at least the cold part - it has come as a bit of a non-issue. My usual regime of light attire in the fall as preparation for the wintery weather seems to have worked wonders this season and so I have been walking through this blustery wind, over icey sidewalks, in biting cold with.. well, not so much as a single concious complaint flittering across my mental wire. Bravo.

Let's see how December treats us.

However, my sketchers - a brand I've always found a bit scketchy - that I purchased this summer in a split-decision due to my need for "brown shoes" for a wedding and also a replacement for my previous (and now oil-soaked) casual shoes, are proving none too tractable in this slippery-surfaced season. I'm talking no traction, boys, no traction. This was brought to the forefront of my (admittedly mild) woes on my walk to campus today when I passed an old man, groceries strewn about him, laid out sideways at the edge of an intersection. He was surrounded by more concerned citizens than could rightfully lend a helping hand so I did not cross the street to investigate if further help was needed - I could see him being helped up slowly, his can being handed back to him, and a group of younger folk bent over collecting his purchased items. Nevertheless, it made me think about my shoes. If I was to fall and break my ankle, crack my head, or bust a shin would I be able to accept the help of strangers? I'm a horribly cranky young man and surely this will only get worse with age. The last thing I want is help from a passing pedestrian - I can help myself, thank-you-very-much. But a broken leg? These things, though faint and far away in the dreamy depths of could-bes and maybe somedays, still float up to the surface of my thought on occassion and give me pause. How can I better equipped myself to accept the charity of strangers? How can I better offer what help I could give? Who needs my help and, when I have fallen, who will save me?

I guess in the end - broken leg or no - I can always reach for my ever-present cellphone and tap out those familiar (and now preciously ambigious) numbers: 9-1-1. While the sirens wail in the background I will reach out for my cane and, snarling visciously like a rabid 'coon in a leg trap, I will swat mercilessly at those offering a helping hand. "Away! Away with you all!"

Afterall, I want to get some services for my taxdollars.