Perennial Dream

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: & / Personal / Stories / Themes / Dreams /
@ K. 2004 09 22

I awoke this morning from a leisurely dream in which I’d been flying: no plane, no glider, no engine, no muscle-powered wings: me — riding the air currents. That’s a first: I think: and I’ll tell details in the next story. But first I’d better tell a related dream: one I’ve had one variant or another of: for decades.

As you may have seen here, I love to ski: however seldom I’ve done it past forty. I never skied till I was in the Army, aged twenty-three or so. But then I tried valiantly (self-destructively) to make up for all those lost years of never having discovered the joy, the danger … never having developed my body to have the strength for it.
Other stories here then tell how I’d ski anything: with or without skies. All I needed was that it be slippery and steep. I climb a mountain in August, I see a glacier, I jump off the mountain and plunge my way down the glacier. No skis. I pretend I have skis: and poles. Stout boots will do: if it’s steep enough.

I’m fishing: I come to a steep bank, covered with brush. It’s much to steep to climb down safely. That’s OK: I ski down it. Skiing is like a controlled fall. Taut legs, rigid ankles: strong legs and good balance: and you land in the creek upright, on your feet, ready to fish.

That’s it for reality. (That’s enough, isn’t it?) Ah, but in my dreams. In my dreams I ski stairways.
Same technique: except that you need slippery shoes. In my dream I always have slippery shoes. Strong legs, good balance, taut legs, hold the ankles all but immobile … Weight, unweight and turn. Weight, unweight and turn. Stick you hip out and really turn. Carve it. There you go!

Skiing of any kind is like dancing. Your arms aid your shifting balance. You hands accompany your feet. Plant that pole! means you’re weighting that ski, carving it, preparing momentarily to unweight that ski: turn, plant the other pole.
Guys who grow up on skis can do that very very fast: the Wedeln. I started late, but I can do it quite fast.
From the sixth grade on, people thought I was a great dancer because I was made of rubber. Strong legs (nothing elsewhere), rubber knees, rubber ankles. They were rubber because they were strong. Very strong. I lived on the saddle of my bicycle for many years. OK, Michael Jackson has got me; but no one else. (OK, maybe the very young Sammy Davis Junior.) I’d dance: others would stop. Form a circle, chant, clap rhythmically. Go, Paul.

I don’t know how strong or flexible I am now, but I haven’t challenged any mountains recently. But in my dream there’s always some endless stairway: usually out of doors: some municipal park where some politician was in the concrete stairway business. Though sometimes I’ll be in a gigantic court house with some really pretentious front stairs: indoors and out: something Napoleon or Hitler would have built. OK, and sometimes I’m in a skyscraper: and the stairs go on and on.

And I never fall.

Stories by Age by Theme by Others

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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