Well, no more History Channel for me for a while.
So, I go out into another hot, sultry day, and I sit under the mulberry tree, and I look at this long crack that has opened in the ground where one of the tree's roots is apparently pushing its way up. It is in between the trunk and a section of root that has already been exposed. The root is quite thick, and suddenly reminds me of an anaconda. I have a brief vision of the ground about me full of giant snakes writhing in slow motion, heaving out of the ground over months or years. It's good that I seldom remember my dreams, if this is the sort of image that pops into my waking mind! Suddenly, I'm grateful that my cable company doesn't provide Animal Planet.
Once in a while, I have dreamed about the beach. I don't remember anything actually happening in these dreams. I'm just there, and it is always somewhere along the southern half of Santa Monica Bay, from Playa del Rey to Palos Verdes. Most often, I'm walking along that long, paved beach front promenade that rises and falls over the low sand hills at Manhattan Beach. The ocean is either stormy or glassy, never anything in between. The beach is either deserted, or populated by only a few solitary figures, standing or walking. If the ocean is stormy, the sky will be full of scudding clouds and a chilly wind will be blowing, but there is never rain. If it is glassy, there will be that particular afternoon light which falls on that part of the coast, bright yet somehow indistinct, diffused through a haze and seeming to come rising up through the green water almost as much as from the sky. The terraced headlands of Palos Verdes will be shadowed, but not by any cloud; it is simply their nature to be dark. In the distance, Catalina is a smudge barely discernable from the fog bank which hangs offshore. There is the smell of iodine and seaweed and warm sand. Apart from the low rumbling sound that comes from the ocean, and the flutter of leaves from a few plants in the front yards of beach front houses when a slight breeze stirs, everything is utterly silent. No sound of traffic comes from the town, No music spills from the houses, no voices are to be heard. It is as though I had dreamed myself into a painting, but one that was just coming to life.
I would much rather have that dream again, than dream about stuffing myself with chocolate to keep it from the Germans. Too bad there isn't a channel changer for dreams.