Nightmares are fairly common for me and it’s little wonder that there’s really nothing that I am afraid of except bears. I’m not likely to ever go hiking anywhere there’s a good population of grizzly bears because that’s just not something I want to encounter in my lifetime. Yes, there’s a lot of people, thousands maybe, who have gone hiking, not seen bears, seen bears and not been mauled, and even took selfies with bears and lived to boast about it, but damn. Being killed by a bear seem like one of the worst ways to die. I also don’t like being in high places but being in a tall building doesn’t bother me at all. If a bear chased me into a tall tree I wonder which fear would override the other. I’m thinking fear of bear would win.
People scare the hell out of me. I know people like Anton Chigurh exist as often as bears maul people but the idea that those people are not easily recognizable is frightening in itself. You know a bear when you see one and if you wander up on one that’s five hundred kilograms you pretty much realize that the top of the food chain is wearing fur or carrying a really large caliber rifle. But Ted Bundy was a likable and personable type guy that no one ever got bad vibes from until he started killing women faster than most bears could or would. The idea that there are people out there who we’re still paying the Secret Service to protect even though they started wars is scary as hell. A man, or a woman, can contrive to kill a hundred thousand people, own stock in a company making billions off of it, and then retire to write a book on how what was done helped make the world a better place. This doesn’t scare you?
It's insane to put yourself in the way of large bears, or sharks, or go to Africa with the intention of swimming with hippos, but, wait, you know, that’s a level of insanity that I can’t remember anyone trying. There was a guy who kept one as a pet over there but it killed him. Most people who know these creatures saw that coming. I did. At the same time, interaction with people is nearly a necessity. People are the creatures who sale dog food and toilet paper and who pay me to do my job so I can afford both dog food and toilet paper. People are also the only species I can mate with, and thankfully, one of the few real benefits of being a heterosexual man is there are very few heterosexual women out there who are insane or at least homicidally so. Moreover, they’re usually smaller and slower than bears so if I was ever in the woods with one and the other showed up, escape might be cowardly, but it would be an option. I mean, does she like dogs? Is she creative? Is there something there between us really fighting a bear over? Is she the type that would throw herself at the bear while screaming at me to save myself?
Suddenly, I sound a little scary myself and more than a bit delusional.
Traffic scares me more than it once did but people are more distracted than they once were. At any given moment in traffic a person is a text away from a head on collision with another human being who, in a world run by reason and logic, wouldn’t have the ways and means to kill another person just because they want to send a one hundred and forty character message to a world who isn’t listening anyway. I spent the majority of my driving time of my life singing Pink Floyd songs and never had a wreck while doing so.
Honestly though, I wonder how much of my brain has been shaped by the weird music I listened to while smoking pot? Or was it my brain was wired to smoke pot and listen to weird music? I haven’t smoked pot in decades and likely won’t as long as my employment depends on my urine being cannabis free, but once upon a time I was as stoned as the purple rabbit sitting next to me on the unicorn. I’ve always felt as if I was a little disconnected to the world and drugs neither prevented that or made it worse. It’s like wondering if country music turns people into quasi-literate hicks or does that sort of music merely attract those with poor language skills? I think that is getting worse also; country music has been in a steady state of decline since Hootie and the Blowfish went western and the state of the language arts in the general population seems to have followed.
I’m up at zero one three zero in the morning because my brain decided tonight’s movie while sleeping would consist of me having a dream of me falling down whenever I tried to stand up. There wasn’t a sense of vertigo or drunkenness or anything like that, I just couldn’t stand up. It wasn’t like I tripped over the dogs, or over my own feet or a tree root, but I just could not stand up. I was sitting on the floor, in the dream, and wondering if this was some sign of aging or if I had been drugged by someone, and I’m willing to bet that there are people who have fallen (and can’t get up) who are holding a cell in their hand wondering if this is the time to call 911. It was an odd dream to have and while not bear scary it still did the job.
Now that I’m really awake and writing about it I wonder if that was a throwback from my brain when I was trying to learn to walk. That makes sense except there is no reason to pull that reel down and replay it unless we’re running out of material.
It’s time for a road trip.