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I've no idea.

I was out Friday night for a casino trip with my mother. After a short while, when it seemed that there was little chance of winning at anything, I sat at a Kino machine where I could lose ever more slowly.

Casinos draw a variety of people. Some are driven, obsessed with the possibility of a big break allowed by luck which may or may not be influenced through the use of charms or rituals. It's curious to me, but I don't discount it entirely. I wonder if bad luck can be psi-missing event. You simply don't believe.

So in the casino, a fellow comes over expressly to speak to me. He was not gambling, but sat down and at first interviewed me about who I was and why I was here. Initially, I thought he worked for the casino as some sort of spy for the marketing group, because the questions were pretty specific, about me, the town, the facilities, the other entertainment. He was cute, young, seemed nice.

Conversation is a game that I'm not used to playing, but was aware of the game whole time watching the moves in my head. Some of it is very deliberate whether spoken or not. The moves: Although he said nothing aggressive, he entered my space by leaning forward close to my face while speaking and constantly stepping on my foot. He chased a couple off who wanted to sit there, protecting the space. Responding moves: I tried to end the conversation at the beginning by telling him how old I was (1) by telling him I was here with my mother (2) and then by telling him that I take care of her in my home. All the while I thought he was attractive and would be happy to follow him around just to look at him.

We talked about spies and religion and local volcanoes. I told him that some of the ash from Mount St. Helens covered patios in North Dakota, and that I was working in Arizona at the time. He said he didn't remember because he was 4.

I wondered if I'd been set up by a person who I knew who is a real practical joker (and she knew I would be there.) Four hours later he decided to go to wherever he was staying to sleep. He asked me to call him the next day. I didn't, but I did think about it. It was nice that he'd been talking to me; it made me feel attractive. If I had more time, I'd take a chance and be a friend.

I don't know what aggressive is. It may not have seemed so aggressive had the little toe he kept pressing not been broken three weeks ago. Maybe that's how people express interest today. Yet one of my favorite lines that we were choosing between a few months ago to be indirect code sentence to let another know the conversation was inappropriate or too heated at work was "You are standing on my foot." They didn't end up selecting that sentence, but it is still my favorite.

When you have a hectic life and are busy day and night, what do you think about when you have a free moment?

The things that cross my mind aren't likely to benefit me anytime soon.

Today's headlines say that they have the body of a Sasquatch and will roll it out for the world to see tomorrow. If it's real, I'm not headed to the woods anytime soon.
http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/08/14/bigfoot.body/index.html

I've always been a fan of Taps and Ghosthunters. This season it is international, and I catch bits and pieces while studying. For the past few weeks, it has bothered me that they are asking all their questions of any resident ghosts in English. In the last show, the leader explains that ghosts likely can communicate in any language. I dunno. It bugs me, perhaps because I want something to bug me outside of things I must do. If it were me, I'd take a pocket travel guide and ask questions in their own language. Of course the literature in those guides may be limited to simple phrases to find restaurants and hotels. I'm surprised they found nothing at the Cachtice Castle in Slovakia where Elizabeth Bathory once lived. Why wouldn't it be haunted? The EVP's they've collected at other sites are awesome.

I remember a phrase book that my father had that was printed during WWII. There were commands like "Raise your hands into the air!" They need a book like that. "Who are you! What are you doing here, Don't you know you can leave?"

Mainly my mind has been on the news at dinner, wondering where the missing little Anthony girl could be. I feel bad for the grandparents.

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I tried doing some artwork of a dream, by putting together a photo of my house and some of the ocean. It turned out pretty well. After looking at it, I wonder about the dream. Most of my house dreams are telling me something about my health. In fact, I was sick when I awoke, even dialing 911 in the dream briefly, but didn't say anything. Dreams are like ourselves with layers of meaning. It might also be exposing fear of debt. The house is sinking, I'm trapped and might drown. I am worried that a new roof will be needed soon and the falling prices might keep me from fixing it. I didn't think of it that way until after I put it into a picture. Who knows? It was a fun little photo to submit to the IASD Psiberdreaming Gallery for the September online conference.

I looked for Sao the other night in a lucid dream. There was a butterfly that appeared. The wings shifted in shapes and patterns in brilliant colors. If I get a chance, I'll try to create some artwork that could express that.

I was so sad to hear today that Sao passed away. I didn't know him personally, but have always been amazed at the artwork he submitted to the IASD PsiberDream galleries. It was the best I'd ever seen, actually, but of course that is just my opinion. It seemed the art didn't rest in one plane, the colors were so vibrant you could almost hear them. So alive. His observations were insightful and I can't remember when he missed a remote viewing target. (I don't know how people do that, but there are a few out there who have a lot of skill.
I was shocked that he'd passed away. It's like a crime that he's gone. Someone like that should be around to remind us how to find the beauty in sight and sound and see clearly.
He was young. I guess I just took it for granted that young, brilliant people wouldn't slip away.



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I don't feel like sleeping.
rambling...

A few weeks ago, I was going to post about death themes again...I filed it in my Word files because it is always on my mind and over-expressed (obsessive). But this blog is generally an exercise to improve my storytelling skills, so if that's what's on my mind, that's what will be in my journal. I've been dreaming about death lately.

In my dreams, in the past month, I've called 911 twice, and each time I've woken up sicker than a dog. The first time, my inner-ear was messed up and I couldn't even sit up in bed. In the second, I must have had some sort of ulcer attack or gall-bladder and fell to the floor writhing in pain. It's funny that there was no pain in the dream. Neither of these issues are 911 worthy, or life threatening, but the dreams initimated that I was at the edge of life and death.

The last dream was the kookiest. There was the cliff theme again, but this time I was alone in a house in a torrent of rain. The house goes over a cliff and lands in the ocean. At first it drifts along, but eventually flips upside-down. (At this point I think I might not be alive, like the "Pirate's of the Carribean - At World's End" movie -they have to flip the ship to return to the world of the living.) I still scramble about to find different crevices where there could be air. The house then breaks up and the debris collapsing around doesn't hit me. I get away and climb up onto a dock. The problem in the dream after that is to convince others that I'm not dead.

My homework last week was to write an opinion paper on a tax topic in the news, so I picked the only one that was in the local paper that day. My paper was about death taxes.

I read that George Carlin's last album was sort of directed to his own thoughts on aging and demise. I'll have to pick it up. Go with the flow.

My ex-father-in-law died on Easter. My daughter called. There was no one to send condolences to in North Dakota. It is sad, but he is with his Adeline. When she died (it was not so long ago) my ex and my daughter took him up to ND to bury her. He had a stroke more than a decade ago and could not speak, nor stand. He would not leave and fought everyone off, including the police, until he was allowed to stay there in a Nursing Home, close to her. It was also Tyler's birthday. Tyler was born last year, a few days shy of the 10th anniversary of my father's death as well. (I keep telling her that he looks just like my dad.) He does. He doesn't look like anyone else. He has the white-blond hair, blue eyes, facial structure and nose. I send airplanes, because my father's favorite place was in the sky. In my fantasy, he gets to live again. He never failed to enjoy life.

It's all just jumbled together, so many thoughts.

Alana called the other day. she said she'd been speaking to her dad and asked why they hadn't gone to see Irwin, so he reminded her that he wasn't alive. She said she'd forgotten. I sort of understand why a person wouldn't remember. I think of a lot of people who aren't around anymore, remembering them at their best times. Sometimes, I recall with a sudden grief that they aren't around, and then brush it off, and again remember them as they were. They are never really gone in our minds.


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My ear problem is like all my other problems. My doc says at least half the time for any problem that I'm there for..."It's because you're old." I was thinking the other day that she's been telling me that since I was in my 30's. I'm not "that" old. So I consulted a colleague with the same ear diagnosis. She says "Well, there's these grains of sand in your ear and they slide down into the tube in your ear like an hourglass." I said, "You mean I'm running out of sand?!" And some people standing around piped in "and these are the days of your lives."



According to Wikipedia, Ben Franklin said "nothing is to be certain but death and taxes"

There are some good videos related to dreaming at videojug.com
http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-avoid-bad-dreams

and if you are not into dreaming, there are entertaining card tricks
http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-read-someones-mind-with-a-deck-of-cards

My mother is writing a book on her childhood experiences in WWII. She is also doing a series of paintings to accompany the writing.

The paintings are fascinating. She is a great artist. Most of her works are so realistic that you feel you could reach into them.

But these works are of a totally different style. They are like dream works. She is present in them but detached and unaffected. The scenes are of horrific events, but they are tightly controlled and not frightening. They have the essence of innocence painted by the child she was at the time. It's just very strange, because they are so unlike her previous works. The style reminds me of a painter who does Winter scenes - Moses, only in another universe.

They are painted the way she speaks of the tragedies, without any fear in her voice. She was either never afraid when fire fell from the skies and people close to death grabbed at her arms and legs as she wandered the aftermath, or it is buried and put away. Perhaps the control in the scenes speaks to that. The paintings are illustrations of what occurred, but they won't harm anyone. They won't harm her. I love that.

She wasn't interested at first in doing the artwork. Before she started doing the paintings, I tried to encourage her by drawing one abstract scene and used a very small,specific vantage point. The bomb bursts are twistedly beautiful, as she describes. The fire was out of control as it continued to fall from the sky. You could not see where it began or ended or what the flames held. It threatened. The threat was very close.

My mother's painting covers the entire area, seeing it from beyond. She is far below, sheltered by the metal roof of a well. The planes are overhead and precise. The fire is deliberate, the hills aglow. It's beautiful in rich, deep tones. The fire threatens in a different way. It is the fact that there are more than hundreds of these fire bombs bursting into smaller fire setters falling, too many to stop them all.

Actually, now that I think of it, it reminds me of the spiders again...thousands of baby fires.

Maybe, she is of a stronger ilk, and was not afraid. Her home was on fire. She prayed for a way "in" to the house. And suddenly there was a blanket she had not seen at the edge of the well. She poured water on it and draped it over herself to run in and save her parents' funeral shrine. They had both died years before. She had been given away to an uncle, but was returned shortly after his death just to see her mother die as well from illness. All that was left was the shrine. She said she wasn't afraid. She had to retrieve it.

How can you not be afraid? I "fear" my empathy is misguided when I try to help with the book, because I may imagine, incorrectly, the feelings. I'd imagine fear.

Yet she keeps saying that my writing (working with her on the book) isn't expressing enough of the emotions she felt, and I should know what they were.
I suppose I do...betrayal, despair and resilience. There is much sorrow and a certain amount of resentment to particular individuals. How can I express how much she wanted her mother to show affection towards her? She really swings wildly between hate and love for her. Her mother was abandoned by her family, and she was essentially abandoned by her mother.

Generations go by. I'd have to say our relationship was similar years ago. I felt abandoned. My parents would get angry and I wouldn't hear from them for years. My daughter must have felt abandoned by me in our divorce. Is it a natural part of life or an ongoing disfunction?

Oh well, I suppose that fear resides in me more than my mother. I'll have to remember that when I try to look at things from others' point of view. Obviously, a person has to be careful not to project their own emotion into the view.