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Ungirdle the Tree

Dreamed 2018/10/6 by Wayan

THAT MORNING

I'm at a Thelonius Monk tribute at the San Francisco Jazz Center. Three pianists including Tammy Hall take turns--eventually, comically, sharing one piano at the finale. Pretty accessible and melodious. Mostly women playing, and I think that helped--no ego-driven skronking, no sax as giant dick...

Interesting Q&A. Kids line up. A coltish brown girl in overalls asks the drummer "How much of what you do is score, how much improv?" A Renoiry blonde with bangs, in shorts, asks the pianist much the same. A feline girl (literally: cat-ears of wire & felt) in the front row studied the drummer intently but asks no questions; later, in the lobby, she dances to music only she hears.

Two groups struck me too. Two sisters near us with lovely faces... who acted bored. If they got it at all, they wouldn't be. But four teens behind the stage in a row did get it; bobbed and twirled and danced in their (spinnable) seats with the rhythms.

I liked it too. Didn't expect to--the Monk I've heard before was screechy. I really think it might be that women rein in that ego thing and keep the audience more in mind.
Vixtoria looks up; a dream-inspired soft sculpture by Wayan.
Scraped, painted cabachons become eyes

My friend Alder wants to show me a rock shop on Church Street. She buys a beautiful stone for a student facing an operation, strings it on a red ribbon. I'm sculpting a dream creature, and need two cabachons (oval gems) to use for eyes; I browse thousands of beads and stones, but find nothing.

THAT AFTERNOON

I bike to an art-supply shop where I have found crystals good for eyes. They're having a half-off sale--great! But the cabachons I find are all faceted; I need the smooth ones I recall. Ask the cashier; she says "they must all be gone. The owner died; we quit restocking; just selling off the dregs."

Yet I'm certain a few are here: he wouldn't toss them and they're low-turnover; so I keep looking for a lost jar or bowl. Half an hour, methodical, persistent; jars, cups. No. Then find a buried little box. Smooth cabachons, but too dark to use. On a hunch, pull the box into bright light and look closer. False bottom! It's TWO boxes, nested. In the hidden quarter-inch underspace, a few gold and turquoise cabs--ideal for me.

Buy three pair. But by asking for help, I showed the cashier how much I cared, so she claims the price is $11 for six, when the late owner charged a dollar for three! I grit my teeth, argue, but eventually pay; the only ones in town.

What did I learn? Intuition whispered "I can find them"; but I discounted that as autistic go-it-alone-ism. So I forced myself to ask--to trust the pro to do her job and know her stock. She didn't. Next intuition said she was wrong, and found them, deep-hidden. But since I'd naively revealed I cared, she knew to jack up the price.

Lesson: my autistic do-it-yourself attitude was right; neurotypicals can be lazy, ignorant, or greedy, or, as here, all at once--gouging AND a hindrance.

THAT EVENING

Up a tree, I untie a magenta band girdling it. Dream sketch by Wayan. Click to enlarge.

THAT NIGHT...

I'm a skinny girl in my tweens or early teens, living alone in a mossy, rainy forest. I know every tree.

But no people. I'm lonely.

A storm. As it eases to a drizzle, I get a funny urge to go out. Mossy trenches and hollows are all flooded, so I go barefoot, barelegged. Cool but not cold.

Zigzag down a creek--gotta hop from bank to bank. Then I spot a problem high up a writhing, forking tree with old scars--lopped-off trunks and low branches. Hiking all over has left me sure-footed--strong legs, tough soles--but my arms are weaker, so I'm not a confident tree-climber. Still, I force myself up. Don't think, just keep moving! Slowly up from fork to fork, snag to lop. I was worried the rain'd worsen my traction, but the damp bark grips better. I can do this.

Four-five yards up, I reach the problem: a heavy magenta cord round the trunk. Fabric sleeve, but a tough plastic-coated metal core. Girdles the tree tightly, digging in slowly as the tree grows. Eventually, if not removed, it'll kill the tree.

Can't cut that core, so I struggle to untie it. A simple knot but it takes minutes--the wet sheath clings. Swear a lot.

Free it at last. Toss the cable angrily to the ground. Hits hard, with a whip-crack. That metal core's heavy.

With both hands free, I slowly descend, shivering, feeling the cold. My hands are sore.

I spot another flash of magenta in the canopy. Another tree attacked like this. How many more?

Great. Looks like I have an ongoing job.

Who did this? Who's strangling my forest?

NOTES WHEN I WAKE

AN HOUR LATER

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AFTER: shamanic dreams - TV-inspired dreams - predictive dreams - ESP in general - pencil dream-art

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