Game Dreams

So many dreams last night. One involved me driving a silver Dodge Charger. It’s the third time that I can recall driving a silver Dodge Charger in my dreams.

In this dream, I was driving it in a race. The race wasn’t on asphalt, but was on a white plastic track. Each race was only one lap. I was having fun, in a good mood, and doing excellent, placing at or near the top. I wasn’t at all concerned with the results. The race was always run with only two cars on the track. I didn’t know anyone else competing. I looked forward to the finish. I was younger, with thick brown hair, and much better looking than I actually am.

Oddly, though, another race was proceeding in parallel. I was informed that during my race. The other race in parallel involved animals. No animals were being harmed, but I took it that some animals were being raced. I was assured that I wasn’t involved, and it didn’t concern me. I didn’t feel concerned. The races between the animals and my series alternated. I didn’t see any of the animal races, though.

Then, in a shift, I dreamed about Chakras. I don’t know much about them. In the dream, they were like stations, and I was going about cleaning and re-charging them. It was all very matter-of-fact. The Chakras were like red cylinders mounted in a row on white pavement. Green grass surrounded the pavement under a cloudy but blue sky. A pleasant warm breeze accompanied my activity. The Chakras were labeled. I read the labels and learned they were about energy. One Chakra, for example, was about my creative energy. Another was labeled “Physical Energy.” I went to each Chakra to check their progress, humming as I did. When checking them, I’d check to see if a black hose was there, and confirm it was connected to the Chakra. I don’t have any idea what the other end was connected to.

Neither of those dreams ended with anything conclusive. They were just done.

 

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Guys and Gals

I entered the cafe. The two female baristas called out greetings to me. I responded, “Hi, guys.”

Then I thought about it. When I retired from the U.S.A.F. in nineteen ninety-five, I didn’t call females guys. But I discovered the young females in my new civilian office were calling each other guys.

I asked one of them about it. She shrugged. “It’s not gender specific to me. Everyone is a guy.”

“A guy is a male,” I said.

She didn’t agree. I thought, is this going the way of many other words, like decimate and literally, losing their definitions and developing into something more generalized? Over the years, I slowly tested it, calling women guys. Some responded, “Excuse me, I’m not a guy.” It was a rarity that I did, though.

I asked the two baristas their thoughts about it. They’re the same age, in their early twenties, college students who work in the coffee shop. One said, “I don’t care. Anyone is a guy. It not about gender.”

The other said, “I’m very sensitive to it.” She also works at a group with a large elderly population. They’re acutely aware, and have made the point to her, “Would you call a group of people that include men, ladies?” I didn’t view that as a parallel; there’s not a general trend to call groups of people ladies. I’ve only encountered that as a derogatory expression to groups of men, essentially implying that the men are effeminate, which is then offensive to them. That was particularly true in the military, as you can imagine.

Out to you, writers. I’m curious about others’ experiences and responses to this issue. Does anyone have some they’d like to share?

Tuesday’s Theme Music

Streaming to you live through memories of recorded music heard in my youth, here is Supertramp with “Bloody Well Right.” Seems appropriate as we wrestle with rights and bloodshed.

You got a bloody right to say.

Mixkers

Mixkers (catfinition): Whiskers of several different colors on a cat, usually black and white, but sometimes with a white whisker that starts black. It’s pretty cool, especially when they’ll crazy-curvy. Quinn doesn’t have such curvy whiskers, but he does have mixkers. I would share of photo of them, but he started rolling around on the carpet when I tried photographing his face. Maybe I’ll try again.

After my coffee.

Right, Right

I’m starting out crabby this morning. I haven’t had my coffee.

I just read an article about California’s right-to-die law. Before that, I read about fake news, sometimes called alt-news, and its spread after the Vegas murders of fifty-nine people at a concert. Before it, I read about the surge in gun sales and the rise in gun-manufacturers’ stock prices. Sales and stock prices go up because people fear that gun controls will be implemented.

The echoes of past debates about all this gains volume as new arguments. America enjoys the satisfaction of having the right to own guns. Americans have enough private weapons to provide eighty-eight of one hundred people with a weapon. But we know it’s not all of us who want to be able to shoot and kill other creatures.

That’s what’s interesting about the juxtaposition of these three stories. People, even with terminal conditions and in terrible pain, are often not afforded the right to kill themselves. It’s not their right. Our government owns that right. In a few places, it’s delegated to bureaucratic processes, but it’s mostly considered a no-no. Your life is too valuable for you to have that control. We’re going to make you hang on until your last breath.

But then, we have the weapons that can fire ten rounds a second, as the killer did in Vegas, or twenty-four rounds in ten seconds, as the Orlando killer did. And that’s your right to own. You don’t have the right to kill, unless you feel threatened, and your state has a defend-your-ground law. The interpretation of that has law has gotten broad. Police officers also have broad latitude, killing others if they feel threatened for themselves or the public. Wounding is less often an option. So here, the right to kill is widely distributed, for a variety of reasons. These reasons seem to trump the sanctity of life.

The last story was about freedom of the press, and the difficulty of coping with the spread of lies, known as false news, fake news, or alternate news, instead of being called bullshit, and lies, as it should be, because, well, rights. People fear that if we start calling bullshit on these things, then bullshit will occur. And as we dither about what to do, what to do, bullshit happens. With that bullshit, we struggle against tides of fears, change, doubt. Then the echoes of debate fade, until the next time.

Enough of this. I’m going to get my coffee and go read about the people complaining about athletes exercising their to protest during the propaganda portion of our sports events called playing the national anthem.

That’s not why wars were fought and soldiers gave their lives, you know. How dare people be so disrespect of their lives?

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