In my dream, I hasten to add. No need to call 911. All the killing last night took place in my own mind for reasons unknown, like so much else that transpires in my psyche.
Usually I'm not big on trying to interpret dreams. Mostly they seem to be my mind's attempt to connect fragments of the previous day's disconnected experiences.
Maybe this explains my dream. Maybe not. Regardless, the peak emotional moment is still vivid.
"Nobody is going to come!" After repeatedly calling out for help to people I could see around me, I finally realized that if the man who was trying to kill me was going to be stopped, I was going to have to do it.
With that realization, my panic abated. And my ferocity fired up.
My attacker had been relentless. He wasn't armed. I had a gun, but it wouldn't fire. The trigger mechanism was devilishly hard to pull. It kept freezing up just before a shot should have been fired.
Deeply frustrating. Revolver interruptus. The fight turned to close-in combat.
Which is when I was able to pound the guy into his death throes. Conveniently, a pile of stones was within reach. I was on top of him as we struggled on the ground. I picked up a good-sized rock.
And smashed it into his throat. Repeatedly. It felt great. Blood started spurting. I got covered in it.
After he was dead I walked past the people who had ignored me. Probably because they weren't even aware of me. They didn't seem to notice a blood-soaked man with a rock in his hand slowly strolling by, out of breath.
"Nobody is going to come." The feeling stuck with me into this morning's meditation. It didn't make me feel lonely. More like resigned to reality.
Nobody has come after close to forty years of daily meditation. Nobody other than me, and sometimes even he didn't show up. So what are the chances that an outside rescuer is going to appear before the end of my life? Pretty darn slim.
I've done a lot of dialing and talking on my spiritual telephone over the years. Hello. Hello. Is anybody there? Can you hear me? Love to chat if you have a minute. Or, eternity.
When you don't get a response, how long are you going to keep holding the receiver up to your ear? At what point does it make more sense to pick up a rock and smash that plastic "Hello Kitty" toy into smithereens?
Because the fucking thing isn't connected to an outside line! Nor, anything. Other than my own mouth and ear, so far as I can tell.
Todd was one of my best high school friends. We kept in touch for a while after college. He moved to Oregon at one point. Took a few classes at Oregon State. Lived in an old house outside of Corvallis.
I remember going to visit him. Todd told a story about how he'd been trying to fix the oil heater in his basement. A line broke. Oil started spurting out.
Todd said that he remembered what his father used to tell him. Todd's family had a ranch in Three Rivers, California, where we grew up. They also raised hay down in the San Joaquin valley. Lots of stuff goes wrong on ranches and farms.
"Look around," was the advice. "Don't panic. You'll find that you have what you need to deal with the situation within reach. Just look."
Todd did that. He saw a rag. He wrapped it around the leaking pipe. Cinched it tight. Got breathing room for a real repair.
I thought of that story when I woke up this morning. Those rocks were right there next to me. All I had to do was pick one up. And smash away. Problem solved. The man deserved to die. It wasn't hard to accomplish.
All I needed to do was get past the turning point: "Nobody is going to come."