Wake Up!

 

 

 

Not long ago, I read a news article about a German couple who had (before going on vacation) rigged up a speaker on the outside of their house that was directed toward their neighbors' home and was connected to an audio system with a timer that would play in twenty minute intervals, the sound of a rooster crowing between the hours of 3:00 and 4:00 AM. No details were given as to why, but it seems reasonable to to conclude that the respective neighbors were having a feud of sorts, or else the pranksters most likely were, and still are, deranged. It reminded me of a series of unpleasant events that happened some years ago in an apartment building in which I lived.  About a month after I had moved into an apartment, several college students moved into the one just below mine. Evidently, they were music students attending a nearby music college, judging from the parking decals on their vehicles. At any rate, pretty much right off the bat, they became the proverbial "neighbors from hell" when very early one morning, I was awakened by music and other noises coming from their apartment. I figured it was an isolated incident so I put some plugs in my ears and went back to sleep. However the next morning at about the same time it happened again. This time, I stomped on the floor and they turned their guitar amps down and whatever else was the source of the noise, and I went back to bed. I assumed that all they needed was a some sort of a hint, though one would think that anyone would have enough sense to realize that people were in bed and sleeping at that hour. But as you no doubt guessed, the little butt heads did the same damn thing again the following day. Presumably, they were going to bars and clubs and staying until closing, and then returning to their apartments where they would continue to party,  play their musical instruments, and engage in orgies. After several days of this, it became quite evident that no amount of floor stomping was going to stop them from making people's lives miserable. So I decided to go to plan B. Those punks obviously had no idea that they were living below an individual who was going to feed them a dose of their own bitter medicine and make their lives a living hell, because in the room just above their bedroom was the room in which I kept a state of the art stereo system with 100 watt "A" rated speakers that were as big as Konishiki.

 

Normally, out of consideration for others, I would use headphones when listening to my stereo, especially if I were listening to, for example, The Who, which was absolutely mandatory to play at the highest volume possible without shattering glass or blowing out one's eardrums. I had even placed the speakers on noise suppression pallets to eliminate as much of the vibration as possible. Those numbskulls had gone too far and they were about to have a most unpleasant experience. I removed the suppressors, not without some amount of difficulty as the speakers were very heavy for one person to move. Then I tilted the speakers toward the floor and propped them up at about 45 degree angles. Since I had to get up relatively early every morning, as did the other tenants with normal working hours (Don't ask how I know that. I just do), I would start off the day with a huge rousing wall of sound. Trying to decide what to play wasn't easy, however, as I have what I consider to be an excellent selection of everything from classic to classical.  As I thumbed through my record collection, I envisioned those brats spooning and snoring and possibly dreaming sweet dreams, and I laughed rather sardonically when I came to Beethoven's 5th Symphony. I removed the album from the cover and cued the needle to the intro, and turned the burnished steel volume knob...DA DA DA DAAAAA...I knew those numbskulls were having rude awakenings (as it were) and maybe even experiencing cardiac arrest as well. If only! They had it coming, though, and I was glad for it. Holy Canoli! The walls were shaking and books were literally falling off the shelves. 

 

However, just like clockwork, the following morning the stupid bastards were at it again although I know damn good and well I jolted their asses mightily the day before. Okay, I said to myself when I got out of bed at daybreak and went into the stereo room, "What shall I play today ?" Again, I leafed through the record collection and with a gleeful grin I plucked the Jimi Hendrix Experience album from its record sleeve and placed it on the turntable and cued the needle to "Voodoo Chile". "Dig this!", I intoned somewhat loudly. Though there is absolutely no doubt that I had rattled their skulls, they would not relent as was evidenced very early the next morning, per usual.

 

This had turned into an all out war. So the next day I played Deep Purple's cover of "Hush", a hard rock version of the original. It seemed those nitwits were as impervious as cockroaches that survive nuclear blasts. Still I continued to wake their sorry asses up every morning just like a drill sergeant. Instead of reveille, however, I played everything that I had in my record collection that was sure to wake the dead, and yet the little beasts would not give in.

 

Then one evening I stopped by Maria's for her usual Sunday soiree which I always looked forward to since I could eat the best Italian food that side of New York. Her nephew, Frankie was there as usual and as usual he and his aunt were arguing. Italians have a propensity for doing that somewhat regularly. they'll argue till they're red in the face and then one of them will leave the room and five minutes later he or she will come back into the room and both will act as if nothing had happened. I guess it's an Italian form of therapy. In any event, I said, "Hey Frank, I've got a little problem with some punks that live below me." He said, " Yeah, like what?" I told him what was what and he said, "You've got two choices." I said , "Yeah? What are they?" And he said that we could have a little talk with the mooks (which, in Italian, is code for a beating) or I could play some Italian opera on my awesome stereo system. I said I would try the opera first. So I played some Rossini and then some Verdi every morning, loudly of course, and within less than a week the orgies abated and then, Blink! just like that...the inconsiderate punks were gone.

Copyright Ⓒ 2005 / All rights reserved

Any reproduction, sale, distribution, or otherwise of this work is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

 

 

 

 

There are more than a few theories regarding the purpose of dreams and what they could mean if we are able to ascertain the meaning (assuming there is meaning to be found) in our dreams. In primitive societies, dreams are a means by which shamans and medicine men communicate with the spirit world. there are accounts throughout history of how holy men in tribal communities have been able to foretell future events by carefully studying the disparate details of their dreams so as to arrive at a relevant explanation of events yet to come as related possibly symbolically. The importance of dreams in certain societies can be shown to be especially revelatory. In 1875, During a major ceremonial event between the various tribal groups of the Sioux and the Cheyenne nations, the great chief and much respected holy man, Sitting Bull revealed a vision  to those attending the important occasion. Sitting Bull intoned, "The Great Spirit has given our enemies to us. We are to destroy them. We do not know who they are. They may be soldiers." Given the harrassment and the arrogant demands of the U.S. military, there can be no doubt in the minds of those who heard Sitting Bull that that was who he was referring to.  Within a couple of weeks, thousands of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors would wipe out General Armstrong Custer and his army at the Battle at Little Bighorn (Custer's Last Stand) thereby giving much credence to Sitting Bull's revelation.

 

 

Psychology offers other reasons for the purpose of dreaming and how we might be able to make sense of our passion-winged ministers of thought.  A Jungian psychologist would suggest that dreams relate to an archetype of one sort or another. Freudian psychologists always point out that everything is connected to the libido, or rather, is symbolically male or female. The cannon is the phalus, the bag is the vagina, and the plow is intercourse, etc. Some people claim that they don't dream, which is unlikely (unless they suffer from a sleep disorder). There are some people who say that they don't dream in color. Maybe they're color blind. But in all seriousness, more likely, it is because the colors in their dreams quickly fade upon awakening.

 

 

As for my own experiences, one morning not so long ago, I awoke from an especially strange dream that was, due to its vivid details, easily recalled. It was twilight and I was standing in front of an abandoned cabin in the midst of a fog. Nearby were other people also facing the cabin. Just then a figure emerged from the cabin and walked calmly toward us. As the figure came more into focus the details revealed the head of a coyote (or a jackal) but the body of a man. When the coyote-man came within several feet of me, he stopped and stood perfectly still. I looked at the other people, whom I didn't recognize, expecting that someone may want to say or do something, but they looked at me with that look that said, "This is your dream. Its your call." So with some trepidation, I walked around the figure examining and wondering what to do. It didn't seem to pose any threat, so I slowly approached the coyote-man and opened its mouth and peered inside expecting to see a person's face, assuming of course that the figure was wearing a mask. Even after I had determined that it wasn't a mask, I was still unsure. Then I stepped back and glanced at the other people and said, "If this is a prank, you've done one helluva job." Then the coyote-man spoke,"What have you learned from this?" His soft spoken self composed tone of voice reminded me of the wandering character in the Kung Fu series from the 70s that starred David Carradine. I answered, "I realize this is going to sound cliche, but could it be that one should not always take something at face value?" Actually, I thought it was a clever pun on my part. He then replied, "You can believe what you want to believe or not believe what you don't want to believe. Either way, it doesn't matter."  And then I awoke.

 

 

Upon reflection and some research, I came up with this analysis. The figure very much represents Anubis the Egyptian god of the dead who is associated with the process of mummification. So far so good. But what does the appearance symbolize and what did the conversation mean. Anubis in a person's dream could mean that the person needs spiritual guidance and (or ) is seeking clarification on an issue. Now that would make sense because of the conversation. But that's the puzzling part. So let's see, Anubis (assuming that that was whom I spoke to), appears to be saying that it doesn't matter what we believe because our beliefs are inconsequential to Universal Truths since humans are presumably programmed or "hard-wired" (in the DNA) with a limited ability to use their minds to their fullest potential. We've heard it said that humans use less than ten percent of their brain power.  That may be true when considering that all the major religions believe that each one of them has the keys to heaven and to believe otherwise is to be an infidel, a heathen, or a non-believer. Hmm. If we used at least 10 percent, maybe we would realize for example, that both the Republican Party and the Democratic Party are really just two sides of the same coin. You see how this works...It just doesn't matter what you believe! 

 

 



Copyright Ⓒ 2005 / All rights reserved

Any reproduction, sale, distribution, or otherwise of this work is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

 

 

        Jump!          

It was many years ago on the very day that I got my drivers’ license, back in the day when a gallon of gas was 50 cents and the Watergate Scandal was the biggest political bombshell to hit the nation in modern times, that I roared out of town in my cool dad’s very cool 1968 360 Go Pac Javelin and headed for my family’s cabin in the mountains. It was summertime and I was looking forward to doing all of the things I normally did when I was on the mountain which included fishing, canoeing, swimming, and horseback riding. But that trip would prove to be quite different from the other times that I had spent there, not because of the fact that I now had a much desired drivers’ license, which allowed me considerably more freedom to go wherever I wanted, but because of a momentous event which very nearly cost me my life.

 

 

The area where I spent many happy summers was and still is the location of a tremendous amount of natural beauty. There are canyons and caves and waterfalls everywhere. Not far from our cabin is one waterfall that a conquistador supposedly ‘discovered’ while looking for the legendary "Fountain of Youth". Often, I would go there with friends and family and we would climb down the side of the canyon to the pool and swim out under the cascade to feel the water tumble over our bodies in cool torrents. Sometimes it was risky if the water was flowing too copiously from the ledge but the thrill was always worth the risk.

 

 

Just before going to the mountain, I had watched the movie, “Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid”. Not only did it star two of the coolest actors of Hollywood at that time, but the story was, for me personally, one that reflected a sort of adventurous lifestyle that I could relate to, one that I had been fortunate enough to experience in spades while growing up during those halcyon summers that I spent on the mountain exploring meadows and forests learning about nature. In one of the scenes of the movie, the two famous outlaws escape being caught by a posse by jumping off of a mountain cliff into a whitewater river. I was so impressed by that scene that I resolved to do something similar in order to experience the thrill of jumping from such a dangerous height. The waterfall under which I had enjoyed swimming numerous times offered the challenge I sought.


It was a beautiful hot summer day when I arrived at the waterfall
with two of my brothers. As we were walking toward the fall, I told them that I had planned to jump from it. They must have thought that I would not actually jump from a height of more than a hundred feet, or surely they would have immediately stopped dead in their tracks and tried to convince me that it was not a good idea. But since they must have assumed that I wasn’t crazy enough to do that, they didn’t protest but rather continued to walk excitedly to the trail leading down the side of the canyon to the base of the cascade for a refreshing swim while I stood above the canyon pool considering the jump. As I stood on the ledge patiently waiting for them to swim out to the cascade, I watched the billowy clouds lazily drifting across the azure blue sky. I looked down at the dark emerald green pool and was mesmerized by the reflections of the canyon wall on its surface. A soft breeze stirred the surface of the pool and shimmered with sparkling reflections of sunlight. The sound of the churning waterfall reverberated and encouraged me.

 

After my brothers had swum out to the base of the fall, I stepped closer to the edge next to and just above the waterfall and yelled down to them to check to make sure that it was deep enough and to see if there were any submersible objects such as tree limbs. Evidently I was more concerned about those things than the impact of my body slamming against the water’s surface. Even then I suppose they thought that I wasn’t foolhardy enough to do it but they went through the motions anyway and yelled back that it was safe to jump and then without hesitation, as if on cue, that is exactly what I did.

 

As I fell feet first at approximately hundred miles an hour, I flailed my arms wildly and, no doubt, I appeared as someone who imagined that he could fly. I had most certainly crossed the Rubicon. In that moment I realized that what I had done was a very brave thing, indeed, if not a foolish thing. When I hit the water, even though it was at a slight angle,  I felt as if I had been whacked across the back with a two by four. I plunged through the water in an arc and every bit of air had been expelled from my lungs. Then I came to a halt in a cloud of bubbles. For a brief moment I was dazed and had no idea in which direction I should swim. Then I saw the bubbles move in a certain direction and quickly I followed after them. It seemed like an eternity as I swam to the surface and was very nearly gripped with panic. When I finally broke through the surface of the water, I threw my body toward the sky like a breaching whale and inhaled so forcefully that one of my brothers later jokingly described the momentous event (as that is surely what it was), as one in which it appeared as if the trees might be uprooted by the extreme force of air being drawn into my chest. As I settled upon the surface, I began to cough violently as water sprayed from my lungs. It’s a miracle that I survived anyway, but I would have likely drowned as I had not one iota of energy left to swim to shore without assistance. One of my brothers had brought along an inflated inner tube and I wrapped my arms around it and in fits and starts I maneuvered toward the shoreline. When I reached the shore, I collapsed on a bed of gravel and although the sharp edged rocks made it uncomfortable to rest, at least I reckoned that I was none the worse for wear, or so it seemed. A few minutes later, I got up and somehow mustered the strength to pull myself out of the canyon.

Fortunately I made it to the car and we sped to the nearest hospital in the valley where the only available doctor, who just so happened to be on call, was also on the links and would not be available for a while. I could hardly hold my body up but I calmly waited in the emergency room until several minutes had passed when I couldn’t wait any longer. So we left the hospital. When we arrived back at the cabin, I went straight to the bunk room and lay in bed for a couple of days to recover.

                                 

Some months later when I was back on the mountain I stopped by to say hello to an elderly farming couple who often let me fish in their pond. I was very surprised when the old man announced to me that I was a “living legend” and that people on the mountain were still talking about my "amazing death defying leap". He further stated that I was lucky to have survived such a jump without any apparent injury. Then he mentioned that for as long as he could remember, only two other people had jumped from that specific spot above the waterfall. One of the jumpers died and the other person was paralyzed. I knew that jumping off of the waterfall was risky but it never occurred to me that it would make me a celebrity of sorts. In hindsight, had I known about the fate of the two other individuals, would I still have done what I did? At the least, I think it would have given me pause to consider when such an act is brave or if it is something else, stupidity perhaps.

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Copyright Ⓒ 2012/ All rights reserved

Any reproduction, sale, distribution, or otherwise of this work is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.