Not to be depressing (or bitchy), but with a steadily declining readership, and after a couple of days of zero views of my blog, I’ve finally come to the realization that I must be doing something wrong. (I know, I know . . . it took me long enough to figure it out.) Even my family and closest friends seem to have had enough of my choice of topics . . . mostly my observations on the daily world news . . . and frankly, I’m a bit weary of the same-old-same-old, myself. I feel the need for a completely different direction.

So, off I go on a new path. I’m an admitted “Midsomer Murders” junkie, and one old episode that I recently re-watched showed protagonist Tom Barnaby solving a series of murders (they’re always serial killers in Midsomer) through the use of the journals belonging to an elderly lady — not coincidentally, one of the victims.

I certainly don’t expect to be either a victim or the source of a solution to any sort of criminal activity — at least, I hope not. But it did make me think that sometimes the brief, random observations of one of life’s sidelined spectators can be interesting, amusing, or even enlightening.

That said, and in keeping with the whole brevity thing, here we go, into the first of my online journal entries . . .

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January 12th: I dream a lot . . . mostly about dead people. No, I’m not like the kid in that movie — I don’t claim to actually see dead people. I know these are just dreams, but I guess I’m simply missing some of the people I’ve lost. Last night, though, it was about a dead person I’ve never met (thank God!); and how I even recalled his last name in my dream — Chikatilo — is a mystery. I Googled him today, and found that his full name was Andrei Romanovich Chikatilo. He was born in 1936 in the Soviet Union — a part of what is now Ukraine — and earned for himself the nickname of “The Butcher of Rostov” by raping, killing and mutilating at least 52 women and children in a 12-year spree from 1978 to 1990. In real life, he was captured by the Soviet authorities in 1990 and executed in 1994. But in my dream, I helped the FBI capture him here in the U.S., and I shoved him into a paper bag and stapled it shut (seriously!) to keep him secured until the FBI agents arrived to take him away. I was a true hero, though my participation had to be kept secret, which I recall was very frustrating. Stupid, inexplicable dream! If anyone has any expertise in dream analysis, I could use a little help here . . . though it could have had something to do with all those Midsomer Murders episodes. I can’t wait to fall asleep tonight.

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Not much new in the news today — still fighting in Ukraine and Gaza; elections coming up here in the U.S., in Russia, Taiwan, and all over the place; Trump still shooting his mouth off; Congress still fighting over the freakin’ budget. Weather’s dismal too, so maybe it’s a good day to clean a bathroom, or do some laundry, or . . . yeah, take a nap. Much better idea. Just curl up in my comfy chair, pull up a furry throw blanket, and . . .

Wait a minute! Just looked over at the bookcase holding my set of the Great Books. Remember them? I bought mine — one volume every month for four years — way, way back in the ‘60s, for $25 per volume. That’s when $25 was a lot of money. They’re beautiful — leather-bound, gold-embossed, and replete with the literature and wisdom of the ages. I was going to read them when I retired, which was almost eight years ago. I really should start soon.

But first, that nap . . .

TTFN,
Brendochka
1/13/24