The year is 1909. The place is a small European village. Bread is being baked. The baker is a man called Loïc.
Though he bakes bread, he does not think about bread. It's automatic now. Yeast never crosses his mind. He cannot spell the word "crust", either in English or his own language. He doesn't care for flour. He forgets about his oven.
He bakes, but he is not aware of it.
His mind is not on bread. It is on a dream.
This dream has visited him every night for seven weeks. It is always the same. It is as clear as day. It is so vivid that Loïc can still feel it on his skin when he awakens. The dream is more real than his waking life. The dream's smells waft through the room, eclipsing breadsmell and bunsmell alike.
Loïc lives for the dream.
He lives alone. He has never married. His parents are dead. His only brother is abroad somewhere dark and unreachable.
Loïc bakes and sells enough bread to keep himself alive. He doesn't need any more than that. All he desires is enough food to feed himself, enough water to quench himself, a roof over his head, and a comfortable bed.
He needs no luxuries.
He simply requires adequate conditions for sleep.
With the sleep comes the dream. And with the dream comes reality.
After the bread has been baked, Loïc removes it from the oven. He doesn't realise that he is doing this. It is auxiliary. Everything is auxiliary.
Time passes at a steady pace. Loïc knows not to be over-eager. He must not sleep before 8pm, or the dream will not come.
Loïc is not impatient. He is serene. He is content. He is, in his own way, enlightened. He has found a route to happiness, and a route to fulfilment. The route is under the eiderdown. The portal is a single hard pillow.
He turns out his oil lamp, and waits to be illuminated.
And it comes again. It will always come. He is not afraid. It will always come.
Even when death comes, the dream will still be there. When the mortal world is gone, the dream will be everything.
Outside his window, the people of the village laugh and drink and fret and argue and love. They are living what they assume are lives. They think about bread. They think about it every morning. And they think about the baker.
But the baker does not think about the bread. The baker does not think about the people of the village. The baker does not even think about the baker.
The baker thinks about the dream.
And the dream is this:
a small glowing window
beneath the window, a row of buttons, like those of a typewriter - one for every letter
through the window, a strange series of images
images of words, appearing as if by magic
there is colour in the window, and symbols, and sometimes pictures
sometimes the pictures are like photographs, but vivid and strange
photographs of a bearded man, adorned with colour
somehow the man and the writing are connected
the writing does not make sense
it seems like it will, and sometimes it edges close to meaning, but it falls short
the words make reference to places and people and coffee and being bored and not knowing what to write about
sometimes, there are items that have the form of jokes or humorous remarks, but they lack humour, they are not jokes
or maybe the humour is too obscure to fathom
one word recurs and seems to be important
the word is 'blog'
the dream is 'blog'
and so is the world
the world is blog
The baker wakes up from his dream at the same point every morning. He smiles. He revels in the afterglow.
A hum of contentment follows his morning routine, as he bathes and dresses.
There is bread to be made. And it will be made.
But the baker will not think of it.
He has seen through another world's window.
The dough will rise. But it will never rise as high as the baker.
***
Blog anniversary time!
This is Post #800. That's a lot of writing. It's a shame no-one reads it, but at least it means that no-one will feel short-changed when the book comes out.
On my hundredth post, I set a stupid precedent that I continue to follow. The opening picture is part of it. As is the linking to my previous milestone entries:
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
Post #700
As is a conversation with myself in the past.
In Post #700, I wrote:
So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?
I would say that the brown shirt is on gardening leave. It's still in the wardrobe, and still makes the occasional jaunt out (if there's a laundry emergency for example; or if I have to go to a costume party, the theme of which is "formal turds"). But it's not part of the regular rotation any more. I think it's on its last legs.
Jeremy Hunt, you'll be delighted to know, has moved away from the vital area of culture, and is now the much more trivial Health Secretary.
All we have to worry about now is the fact that he's dismantling the NHS, probably this country's greatest achievement. Hunt is killing poor people, though in a less direct way than he'd probably like.
This isn't like the halcyon days of Post #700. Things are really miserable.
But, on the bright side: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
But enough about me. Post #900 Paul! How's it going, man? Did you manage to plant some flowers in your window boxes?
Also, have you done any good tweets lately, or is that whole deal over with now?
***
In my last anniversary post, I wrote and recorded a WHOLE NEW SONG specifically for the occasion, and made a VIDEO MONTAGE. Imagine!
I haven't put as much work into this one. In fact, I haven't put any work into it. Possibly because I resented the fact that my song and video attracted no comment whatsoever. What's the point?
Ironically, the song itself was about my lack of comments, so it was probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.
It seems a shame to be so monomedia in this entry though. Maybe I could just do something quick.
That'll do.
I know your attention span is too short to listen to something long, like - I dunno - an AMAZING SONG.
But seriously, you're all great.
And very attractive.
I wonder who the most attractive reader of this blog is... (Excluding me, for several reasons)
If you think you're the most attractive reader of this blog, send a short description of yourself, on a stamped, addressed envelope to the following address:
Headscissors
8212 Scrupulous Drive
Waxahachie, TX
Please note: DO NOT SEND A PHOTOGRAPH. Only a verbal description will be accepted. And, even then, only if it's pretty vague.
***
There's a wrestler that I like called Daniel Bryan.
He's also a wrestler that everyone else likes. He's become really popular, even though he's quite small for a wrestler, and has a big beard, and is a vegan.
He has a strange intensity that makes him fun to watch.
We saw him live, years ago in Coventry (when he was called Bryan Danielson), and he got booed because he stopped his entrance music before everyone could sing along. His music was 'The Final Countdown'. "Only Americans get to hear The Final Countdown!" he said.
That's what you call being a heel.
Wrestling - or more accurately, WWE wrestling - is often full of bad writing and bad decisions. But sometimes, someone like Bryan will come along and take everyone by surprise. I hope he does well.
I don't know why I'm talking about this. Perhaps I just wanted to include some photos in this entry.
If you don't care about wrestling, come back! I'll talk about something everyone likes!
***
Isn't it fun when you put stuff between your toes? Yeah, it is! Like the toes of the other foot. Especially between the third and fourth toes.
It's really satisfying.
Different toes don't have different names like the fingers do. There's the big toe. And the...
Hang on.
Have I talked about this before?
Because I started this as a deliberately lame bit of universal writing. But if I've written it before, in earnest, I'll have egg all over my toes.
I'll search for toe content.
...
It's now several hours later.
I don't think I've ever covered this specific topic, but I certainly have written a lot about toes.
I need to change the subject. I should probably put some socks on.
***
This is enough. I will have lost people at every stage of this entry, and I can't imagine who might be left.
You must be really bored, Sarah. You really must.
Between you and me (and maybe the other Sarah if she's reading), I think you need to have a good hard look at yourself. If you're living a life where you have the time, the patience, or the temperament to read the whole of a post like this, there's something wrong.
You too, Dave.
It's embarrassing.
Don't come down to my level. It's horrible down here.
This has been a lot of fun.
I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments:
"I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments"
MAkes yOU think, mm?!
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