I dreamt last night that my mom wrote a regular column for a small newspaper in Mississippi.

We were walking together out of a bank, much like the about-to-be-robbed ones from old Westerns, and she passed me an envelope of cash. I’ve been to Mississippi once and the barren delapidation immediately revealed itself as Marks, reeking of poverty and depression.

The envelope of cash needed to be deposited at another bank later that afternoon - this was of critical importance to my mother’s well-being. Either she made that clear or I knew it to be true by virtue of dream logic. Fast forward. My mom, as it turned out, worked at local newspaper. Her office was tiny, impossibly high ceilinged (no visible ceiling at all, actually), and reminiscent of the prison in David Lynch’s Lost Highway. My usually diminuitive mother was further diminished by the enormous desk and rising walls, bent over a typewriter. I was visiting her when the paper’s editor came in, played by Richard Jenkins, and furtively handed her an envelope. He said something about how he’d made a mistake, that he hoped she still had the other money and that he’d forgotten to pay her before. Evidently the deposit with which I’d been trusted was to pay some debt that no longer existed.

She held the new envelope to her chest, grateful and more childlike than ever. Our man Richard Jenkins, obviously smitten with my mom and helping her out at some personal sacrifice, then left the office. My failure to make the deposit was a boon and the negligence ultimately served my mom.

There’s a lot of obvious symbolism in the dream - the preoccupation with money that dominated my mother’s last months (years), imprisoned in MS, childlike and tiny, some absolution for the gnawing feeling that I neglected my responsibilities as a son. Not really sure about the benevolent Richard Jenkins, though, or the journalism gig. It wasn’t a good dream. The final image, clutching money in that oppressive office, didn’t leave me feeling warm this morning.

The dream came right on the heels of another in which my mom’s apparition appeared to me and my nieces - the stranger in the room couldn’t see her at all. But the girls and I were moved by JoJo’s apparent bliss and also excited to be part of something secret and supernatural.

Something’s trying to work itself out in my subconscious.

This one’s for the man of the hour, the hero of legend, and the title character of the epic Jungle James Toe.

Everyone knows that Zero represents the realest of the real. Original robot prototype and the emblem of humanity that I’d recommend any curious alien get to know.

What I treasure most these days is that Zero is unabashedly into what he’s into. I respect and admire his dedication to being at home surrounded by music and electronic goodness. Also every gear blog and an endless stream of craigslist equipment posts. I get swept up in a thousand different interests and I’m grateful to have his style in the mix.

I recently borrowed these massive and ridiculous Shure studio headphones (which are actually heavy enough to hurt one’s head). For the first time in ages I got lost in music, owing to the volume level and the ambient noise cancellation offered. Yesterday morning I was in a cab listening to The Mars Volta too loudly and really slipping into another world. It’s fun to visit the land I think Zero lives in most of the time, listening to music with everything you’ve got. Almost like an act of worship. It reminded me of the relationship Zero (and Charlotte, they’re sides of a coin on this one) has with music and I thought about him in conjunction with both Omar and Cedric.

That’s the clincher, really. Sure, he’s a fishing expert and always ready to watch the latest episode of Lost. Also hilarious about studying his hair in the mirror. But talk to that kid about The Smashing Pumpkins or The Cure, or De-Loused in the Comatorium and you’ll get a window into the realest realness. Zero and music are inextricably linked in my mind, and that’s such a special association. He’s a great anchor and reminder of how magical listening can be.

Also he can straight upstage a sadhu. So sit on that one.

Happy Birthday, Zero. May the jungle toe be with you.

This morning I dreamed of the Akallabeth.

When circulation is somehow, by virtue of mysterious forces, cut off to a tooth, said tooth begins to die. Naturally. Cut the blood flow to any body part and it leaps toward death. Teeth, though, unlike external body parts can die quietly. A tooth can avoid signals of cell death, basking in necrotic silence until it unleashes its voice, Blackbolt-style. 
The body recognizes the dead flesh as an infection (I’m told there’s a good chance of actual bacteria romping in the rot) and signals the brain to recognize the pain. Or something. 
Here’s the kicker. This situation escalated rapidly for me after a visit to the dentist and the filling of a cavity below the corpse of a tooth on top. At the time, the dentist believed the slight cavity shouldn’t be causing much pain but that filling it was a smart preventative. Cool. I appreciate that. 
But the filling threw off the aged alignment of those molars. Meaning there was some new friction and pressure when I bit down. That pressure, like opening a crack in a dam, revealed the inherent weakness of the dying top tooth and unleashed torrents of blinding pain. Good news is that had the tooth gone undiscovered, the decay may   
have advanced much more before I braved the dentist’s chair. 
Anyway, a root canal’s right around the corner, glittering with the promise of more pain and a bill that remains ridiculous even after insurance. Huzzah! 
Double bonus, though: today’s appointment was free! And I’ve got prescriptions for antibiotics, ultra-Motrin, and Vicodin! I can’t get this dead thing out of my mouth for over a week (a trip to Chicago rules that out), but at least I can play House for a bit. 

For your health.

Dreamtime.

Also seconds before the pup leapt onto thin ice and started to run across the lake, natural as anything. Real terror.

I went to Tents and Trails to get a few last minute camping supplies (fuel canisters, gloves, first aid kit) and auspiciousness rained. The place is more than 50 years old, and while stocking the latest gadgets it maintains an air of old world adventure. Reminded me of the handful of legit retailers in Kathmandu. So naturally a Nepali man worked there. He said hunchha or hajur to someone and I leapt into the conversation. It’s amazing how much Nepali I’ve retained, and more amazing how much happiness it inspired to talk to this tiny man from Sagarmatha. There’s a beautiful openness about the Nepalese - an immediate embrace and acceptance of others. It was a very real connection. Thrillingly and heartbreakingly one that I haven’t had with a stranger since I left that country. It felt a little like coming home. In the end, on my way out the door he took my hand and said that we’ll meet again. It was so sincere. He was probably Tibetan, standing at about 4’6” and rocking the smile of the century. And I think there’s something magical and auspicious in that meeting because I haven’t really camped since the Himalayas. But on the eve of a one week trip into the hills I touched base with the Nepali realness. It was a reminder of the spirit to bring into this trip.

4 days away.

I’m not at all sure where to begin. A polish woman bit my dog. Make no mistake, the action and fault rest solely with that beacon of beasting ignorance. How do you bring that animal to a dog run? How has your negligence and shimmering stupidity ruined something pristine and miraculous, turning your pup into something aggressive and unpredictable?

And then you bring the beast that mirrors your worthlessness into an essentially unsupervised playground. Then the damage is done, and the sweetest, purest, fastest thing on four legs has a hole in his side. An actual hole.

And how, Polish husk, might you react to the proof of your dog’s aggression? Proof of your own incompetence and lack of grace? Why, with a sigh and a light swat on the back of your dog’s head. No surprise, just a familiar sort of shame because, oh geez, he’s done it again.

I think I care too much about Icarus. I don’t know if we can make it in this city of concentrated ignorance and oblivion.

Spent last night at work shoveling snow for the better part of five hours. With typical forethought, no one thought to staff the evening appropriately to keep sidewalks open and the ice at bay. The wind off the Hudson lifted the snow into swirls of white and built drifts along 13th Street. It was so dreamy. I abandoned my usual job in favor of a shovel and bags of salt - which, as it turns out, burns one’s lips and nose upon contact. I felt like a man for the first time in ages.

Then we all walked to a bar that served scotch at 8:00am and watched dogs wrestle on the floor.