The ‘Kill-Each-Other-with-Clay’ Game

It’s weird dream time again, folks. I woke up today from a dream in which I played a paint-ball-style game with a group of about 15 people. Just as the object of paintball is to ’shoot’ your opponents and win by ‘wounding’ or ‘killing’ them (as shown by the paint splatter on their clothing), the object of the game in my dream was to throw a large wad of moist clay at one’s opponent in hopes of ‘wounding’ or ‘killing’ them. The only way to actually ‘kill’ in this game was to hit your opponent smack in the face with the clay.

In the dream I could play the game the best, and I winnowed the playing field down to me and one or two other people. The whole time we played the game, all of us were laughing and greatly enjoying ourselves, and I remember we were mostly naked with much of our skin covered in dried clay.

At the end of the game — which, as it would turn out, was also the end of the dream — I had chased my last opponent into a large room in which all the players who had been ‘killed’ were waiting. Even though two large windows graced the far wall of the room, everyone sat in shadow, in darkness. From somewhere a light shone on myself and my final opponent — who I think was a young man — as we circled each other, hefting wads of clay and looking for the opportunity to strike.

We smiled hugely at one another, raised our clay lumps and simultaneously threw them — right into each other’s faces. And that was that. The only other impression I have from the dream is of the other game players — the ones who had been ‘killed’ — all sitting passively in the dark and watching us.

This dream makes my weird-o-meter go off the charts! I’ve got all kinds of associations and ideas frolicing around in my brain, such as: clay equalling the human body in poetry and literature, symbolizing our return to the soil after death. That’s the most obvious one to me. Also, I sort of get the symbolism of ‘playing the game’ of life, and that it doesn’t matter how good you are at it — if you equate staying alive with ‘winning’ the game, you’ll never win.

Perhaps this dream came into my headspace simply to make me think. About what, you ask? Well, about what would make me a winner, in other words, make my time on Earth — in this clay body – successful. Sure, I can have fun, and in the end I’m still getting that wad of clay in the face. So what do I want out of my life besides fun? Heavy question, eh?

I’ve got a lot to think about, it seems. Time for me to sign off and get started. Thanks for reading.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

August Heat — For Real This Time

Oh, it is hot today. Hotter than a jalapeno. Hotter than a habanero (does this text editor do tildays)? Hotter than the inside of a . . . well, of something really, really hot. Usually doesn’t get this warm in Northern California, but the last couple of days have been brutal. Right now I’ve got a large fan blowing on me and I’m soaking my tired tootsies in a bowl of water and peppermint soap. . .ahhhhhhhhh! As good as it feels, my feet are the only part of me that’s comfortable. Oh, well.

I performed at a poetry event this weekend in San Francisco, and someone sent me the photo above of myself on stage. It is rare that I actually like photos of myself, and I am very happy with this one. I am red hot! At the moment, literally (and I’m not wearing red — just the old, unloved wool coat of late August, late afternoon air).

Tomorrow I have a free day, and I will probably spend much of it sleeping, catching up on the rest I have not been getting. That will be lovely. I’ve nothing super exciting or pithy to report — just wanted to get in another post before August passes by. If I could bring myself to do shorter posts, and ramble like this when I’ve not much to say, I know I’d post more often.

It could happen. Thanks for reading.

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~

August Heat

Hardly know anything about August heat anymore, living in Northern California. We get a smattering (one of my favorite words!) of hot weather in summer, but almost nothing to really get excited about. I’ve been to Iowa City, Iowa and Portland, Oregon this summer and both places were way steamier than my area of Nor Cal, at least regarding summertime weather. I guess I just decided to title my post ‘August Heat’ because I couldn’t think of anything else to call it, and it happens to be the first day of August.

I realized recently that I never did post about my drive back from Portland. Well, the first thing I will say is that if my trip up to Portland was the bright side of travel (which is how it felt), then my trip back was the shadow side. To begin with, I drove through five hours of (mostly) heavy rain, which lasted all the way to the California border. I ended up pulling into more rest stops along the way, and even took two naps at different times, each one lasting an hour. That was not, of course, my intention either time, but my sleepy body and brain had other plans. I also managed to injure my right foot at the very first rest stop. Stretching my aching, weary body I tried to grab my right foot and bring it up to my butt, lost my grip and slammed my toes into the concrete wall behind me. Ouch. My middle toe is still bruised and sore.

I did put my new digital camera to good use, as you can see by the picture of Mount Shasta above. I like this photo so much I have it as wallpaper on my desktop computer. (The Portland Sunset one from my previous post adorns my laptop, which I used to blog while in Portland.) I also took a couple of amazing “psychic side trips,” turning off I-5 when my inner voice urged me and taking some photos of gorgeous trees and such along my route. Nearly the most astonishing part of these side trips was this: after each one I found my way back to I-5, and not by backtracking. This is especially astonishing to me given my tendency to panic and get waaaaaay lost when I am in an unfamiliar place.

My first side trip took place in Oregon, a few miles from the California border. I turned off I-5 South and then hung a left, following a sign that told me I was headed toward ‘Old Highway 99.’ I drove all eight miles of Old Highway 99, stopping to take photos along the way.

On the opposite end, 99 was called ‘Old Siskeyou Road.’ I drove past Immigrant Lake and saw gorgeous mountain views, went around in a huge circle and found my way back to I-5.

My other notable side trip took me through the city of Mount Shasta, where the first thing I saw was a billy goat perched on a big rock in someone’s backyard! Perhaps such things are old hat for those who live in Mount Shasta, but billy goats in backyards are exotic to this urban woman. Everywhere I drove in Mount Shasta, I could see views of the mountain for which the town is named and also the ‘plug dome,’ which has another name that I am unable to recall. Fascinating that much of the Shasta area was formed by lava gushing from the mountain’s belly.

 

So really, my trip back was a savory, salty mix of painful and fun, exciting and scary. At one point, near sunset, I pulled in to a rest stop outside of Redding, California and found myself (nearly) alone. As I sat in my car, a man approached holding a spray bottle and cleaning rags, a hopeful smile pasted on his mug. At least, I think he meant me to interpret his smile as hopeful. I was struck immediately by the wrongness of his presence. To begin with, he was clean and neatly dressed; even his rags were clean. He also seemed to be the only other person there, and there happened to be one other vehicle — an old yellow van — in the parking area. I shook my head, rather vehemently, and he backed off. I sat in my car and watched him as he walked around to each of the bathrooms, apparently checking to see if there were any other people around. I lost sight of him for a few minutes, then spotted him peering around the far corner of the men’s bathroom to see if I was still sitting in my car.

Well, that did it. I took off from there, ignoring my need to relieve my bladder, and found another rest stop further along. I mean, maybe this guy was legitimately homeless and ultimately harmless. Maybe. I’m still really glad I didn’t stick around!

My trip back to California ended up taking exactly as long as my trip to Portland — fifteen hours. Now my only question is, where will I go next! I’m thinking about Sedona, Arizona — only about 12 hours away as the car drives. Other possibilities may present themselves as well. A close friend who spend lots of time in Nevada with her sweetie has suggested on several occasions that we (my husband and I) visit she and her sweetie and stay at their bed and breakfast retreat center. Heck, though — that’s only four hours away! But it could be a fun trip, nonetheless.

Wow, this is a long post! And I may make another before the day is through — two in one 24-hour period! Will wonders never cease!

~Love and Blessings,
Selene~