Episode 7

I was walking. Again. My head was down looking at my feet. One step and then another. Slow, plodding. I was walking in tan colored sand. With each step forward I could feel the sand slip under my feet moving backwards as I pushed myself forward, making me work several times harder than if I were on a firm surface. I could feel the warmth of the ground through the soles of my shoes, sweat and grit working their way in between my toes. A rough rubbing with every step. There was a rawness building up in the webbing next to my large toes.

It was overwhelmingly hot. My entire body was moist with sweat, which was evaporating as quickly as it was forming. I felt like I was drying out, slowly one molecule at a time, losing all of my hydration. My clothes stuck to my body, glued on with a paste of salt from my perspiration. The air hung, still, without any sign of breeze. Not even the smallest breathe of fresh air to help cool me off. I could feel the sun beating down on my head, the warmth punishing my already sunburnt scalp. The brilliance of the sun was blinding. I had to squint, and yet I was still getting too much light on my eyes. The sun reflected off of the sand doubling the effect of the sun. I pulled my visor down lower over my eyes, trying to keep as much of the brightness out as I could, but I had a headache. One that was only going to get worse with every minute I stayed out in the sun.

I realized that I had no water. I wondered when I had last drunk, and when I would be able to again. My mouth was dry. Hardly any saliva, not even enough to swallow. My tongue felt to large to fit in my mouth, swollen. I heard one time that much of the pain of a hangover is from dehydration and that dying of dehydration would be similar to the worst hangover possible. I laughed at the time, it seemed like a silly comparison. Death versus a bit of discomfort from over indulging. However, now it seemed like an apt analogy. My head throbbed. My stomach was filled with a sour overly concentrated acid, burning my lower esophagus. Had I thrown up or was it going to happen soon? That would compound my problems. Losing what little bit of precious water my body still contained would turn the situation into an emergency, if it wasn’t already one.

I continued to walk, one step at a time with a brief pause between each forward stride, staring at the ground the whole way. Slowly I began to realize that I was following something. There was a pattern in the sand. Not just random, windblown ripples, but regularly spaced divots, moving in a relatively straight line in front of me. More to the point I was following someone. There were footsteps ahead of me! The steps were spaced closer together than mine. I lined my toe with the front of one of the steps, and continued to walk. It was eight of my steps and nine of the other before my foot lined up perfectly with another step. My stride was longer, but not by much. I was probably following someone shorter than me. Not enough difference to be a child, but maybe a woman or a shorter man.

I looked up. Squinting harder as the sunlight assaulted my eyes. I was on a slight hill approaching the crest. The footsteps continued to the top of a ridge and then over and out of sight. I glanced to the left and right. It was a barren land. Some small desert plants. Scrubby oily bushes, jumping cholla cactus, and thin dried yellow grass growing in tiny tufts. There were large tracks of sand with no plant life at all between each tiny clump of growth. The footsteps avoided all of these pockets of life, sticking to the bare sand. There were no signs of civilization within easy sight. No buildings. No roads. No power lines. No sounds of a jet flying overhead or of traffic in the distance. It was just me, the sun, the sand, the plants, and the footsteps stretching in front of me.

I gradually came to the top of the rise. What I had first assumed was the top was a false summit. Hidden, just out of view, was another slope slowly climbing up to another ridge. I put my head down and continued moving. One step, another. Time was passing very slowly. The air hot in my lungs, was still refusing to move. My head and my feet hurting with my whole body threatening to follow. When it felt like I should be most of the way up the next ridge I looked again and to my dismay found that I was not even close. A forever of walking and little progress to show. I focused on my breathing, slowing it down so that I would conserve energy. Breath in for four steps and out for four steps. A walking meditation. Quieting the mind. One step at a time I covered the distance, ignoring the pressing needs of my body, focusing simply on breathing.

Finally I crested the top. The view ahead of my opening out downward into a broad drainage. There was probably only very rarely water here, but the formation was clearly carved by erosion, perhaps over millennia . The steps continued straight ahead, a little to the left of the center of the drainage, contouring slightly downward until they stopped at a shape. A person. Moving slowly one step at a time away from me. It was her. I knew it as soon as I saw here. The woman from the balcony. It was odd, startling even, that I had such a clear memory of a moment I felt so far removed from. I strained my eyes to see her better, but she was distant. A little bit more than a human shaped dot, plain colored clothes, not white, but not very dark either. Slow labored steps that mirrored mine. She was moving painfully slowly, maybe with a little bit of a limp favoring a leg.

I considered calling out to her. She would probably not hear me over this distance, but there were no other sounds, but a part of me knew that she was fleeing me. That she would not turn around even if she heard me. I tried walking a tiny bit faster. Increasing the rate of my steps just enough that I would begin to close the gap. I wanted to make contact with her. To make right whatever was wrong. I willed my steps to be longer. Even if she were not moving the distance would take a long time to cover. I would have to continue and hope that she would stop for a break or a rest, but she did not show any sign of slowing down, no sign of stopping, and never once turned her head, never checking to see if she was followed, just continuing in a straight line ahead.

Something was tickling the back of my mind. Something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t sure what was it was, but something was off. I stopped and turned around. The hill was rising above me as far as I could see. How long had I been walking down hill? The terrain was just as featureless to the rear as in front. I looked back forward. A hill was rising, with footsteps rising up and over a ridge. I was confused. Where was I? I had just reached the top of the hill moments earlier, and was following a figure, but now was back at the bottom of a hill. I stopped and thought. How was it possible that I moved without knowing it. Or had the land around me changed? There was only one answer that made sense. I was in a dream.

The shock of the realization made me catch me breath. I tried to calm down. I didn’t want to wake up yet. The dream must mean something. I had to talk to the woman that was in my head. I closed my eyes and tried to take control. The heat gradually lessened, the sun’s light became not quite as bright. I opened my eyes again. I was still in the same place the same time, but everything seemed easier to bare now. I tried to wash the fatigue away, to quench my thirst with thought alone, but was unable. They were unavoidably party of this reality. I wondered if my sleeping body was too hot, badly dehydrated somewhere. I tried not to focus on my body, somehow knowing that if I could feel a real physical sensation it would wake me. I again looked at the world in front of me. I might not have been able to change where I was or how I was feeling, but I could change how I traveled.

When someone is aware of their dream and takes control, it is referred to as lucid dreaming. It is not something that comes easily for most people. Only with a lot of practice, patience and effort are people able to do this. However, once you are able to control your mind during your dream, you are able to control many aspects of the dream. One of the first thing that people will try is flying. A simple act in a world without physical constraints which is impossible in the real world. In my case I wanted to fly, not for the shear joy of effortlessly moving through the world, but to get somewhere. To get to the end of those footsteps.

I raised off the ground, hovering briefly for a second and then started moving forward. When people think of human flight they generally imagine superman, flying body parallel to the ground legs out straight, maybe one arm forward in a fist, his cape flapping behind on his back. Or maybe the imagine Aladin, sitting on his magic carpet, swooping around in fancy acrobatic motions. This is never how dream flight works for me. I am always standing upright floating above the ground, usually hovering low, traveling in a straight line forward. This was the manner of my movement. Approximately a foot above the ground moving at the speed of a slow run and continuing to follow the footsteps. Despite my increased speed, the air was still. There was no rush of air in my ears, no wind tussling my hair. The stale listlessness air was out of my realm of control.

I floated up the hill, the new one, and reached the top. Again I could see her in the distance ahead. Walking away from me at a slow steady pace. I kept my eyes on her this time, determine not to let her slip over another hill without my notice. I was beginning to see the gap close, excruciatingly slowly I was getting closer to her. As I approached I could see more details of her figure. She was wearing pants and a long shirt with a broad brimmed hat. None of her skin was exposed to the sun, or to my eyes. Her pants were khaki and her shirt a pale green with the color standing up, covering the back of her necks. The hat was slung low drooping along each edge. Her hair cut short, barely extended past her collar. Her stride was still slow, still pained. She was clearly favoring her right knee. An old injury?

I tried to increase speed to get closer, but the air felt thicker. Although I was still gaining on her, the distance seemed like it was remaining the same. With effort I was able to approach her. It felt like I was crossing a barrier that didn’t want to be crossed. There was a conscious effort trying to repel me. Since I was in my own dream, that resistance could only be generated be me. Was I trying to protect myself from something? Was this part of the dream that I wasn’t supposed to see? As I came up immediately behind her I spoke.

“It’s me.”

No response. She continued walking away from me without even breaking stride.

“Can you hear me?”

Still nothing. I tried to slide around to her left to get even with her. Her back remained toward me. I rotated around her, trying to see her face to face, but no matter where I positioned my self her back was always to me and she was always walking away. I tried to close the last few feet and grab her, but could get no closer.

“Please say something.”

My plea was not heard, or ignored. My frustration started to rise. I was so close to her but couldn’t touch her, couldn’t communicate with her. My heart rate increased. My breathing became more rapid. The world around me started to fade away. I felt as if I were falling backwards into a dark hole. Vision, sensation, reality slipping away. I was waking up.

I tried to open my eyes but could not. My head hurt. Pounding pain throbbing with every heart beat. The air was too hot, I could hardly breathe, but I couldn’t fully wake up. There was a haze across my mind, I couldn’t complete a thought. I slipped back into unconsciousness.

Episode 6

I held a knife in my hand.  Nice quality, hard cool handle, straight sharp blade.  On a wooden cutting block in front of me was a tomato, already diced into uniform pieces.  The juice slowly spreading out from the center of the mass of chopped matter.  I held a half of an onion in my left hand, pinning the cut side to the block, a semi-sphere facing me.  It was skinned and ready to be cut.  I made an efficient slice through the onion, straight down the middle, another slice a third of the way down the right hand side and a third slice splitting the remaining piece on the right.  I rotated the onion 180 degrees and did two identical cuts on the other side.  I now had six stacks of even width ribbons of onion.

The room I was in was brightly painted, a soft yellow with white trim.  The cabinets were made of light pine coated with a clear finish topped with faux stone counter tops, dark grey with flecks of gold.  The floor was was a slightly darker material than the pine, a different pattern, not wood grain but something else.  Probably bamboo.  The windows were lined with white lace.  Brushed metal appliances completed the modern, and expensive look.

I removed a twelve inch cast iron skillet from a hanging rack and put it on the stove surface and turned the gas on medium.  A dab of oil from the conveniently placed bottle and with a few minutes to let the skilled heat I would be ready to cook.

I grabbed a pepper next.  An orange bell pepper.  My hands moved quickly, confidently.  First, with a circular cut I removed the stem, and the seeds.  Next, cut the pepper in half and then removed the membranes and finally I cut into into strips like then onion and then the strips in to pieces. I checked the skillet, the oil was bubbling.  I picked up the chopping block and slid the onion and pepper into the skillet. The hissing sizzle of the moist vegetables, the immediate release of the smell of cooking food, the steam of water driven out. I grabbed a wooden spoon and began stirring the food.

Back to the counter I pulled three eggs from a carton and a bowl and a cup from the shelf above. I cracked the first egg, split the shell in half and then separated the yolk from the white over the cup by pouring the egg from one side of the shell to the other letting the white slip into the cup below. I dropped the yolk into the bowl and then threw the shell into a bin beneath the sink. I repeated the process with the second egg and then put the entire third egg into the bowl with the two yolks. I grabbed a fork from the drawer below the counter and whisked the contents of the bowl into a frothy mixture. I picked up the bowl and turned to the stove. I turned the peppers and onions with the wooden spoon, they need another minute before I added the eggs.

I set the bowl down and looked out the window. It was sunny outside. The window overlooked a steep hill a small yard and a rough cut wooden fence and many houses down below. There were lots of trees, mostly pine, and small ornamental bushes and other signs of intensive landscaping. There was a haze in the air, thin smoke coming out of the chimneys of some of the houses. At the base of the hill another hill rose up rolling to a peak, covered with houses from top to bottom, with the top of another hill showing behind.

The houses all seemed too large for their lots, big houses all crammed together, no room to move or breath. They mostly had shallow pitched roofs, some even flat topped, tar paper topped with white crushed rock or clay tiles on top. The colors were uniform. No bright bold primary colors. No Pastel. Mostly just plain grey houses with plain tar paper roofs. There was the occasional tan or beige house, but they seemed to be the exception. With so many colors to chose from why did the people of this city limit themselves to such a tiny pallet. There could be bright blues and reds, yellows and greens, instead of this drab uniformity.

I heard a boom and then a rumble. It sounds like a large train moving down a track at high speeds. A deep full body rumbling that I could feel in my chest. The hillsides in front of me seemed to warp, to change shape in a way that didn’t seem possible. Suddenly the ground lurched downward, it felt as if the floor was being pulled from under my feet. I grabbed the counter with my left hand to retain balance. The floor was now bouncing up and down in a choppy wave motion I heard the bowl of eggs clattering on the stove behind me and something falling over in the next room, but was to rapt by the events unfolding in front of me to play much mind. The trees were vibrating and the houses seemed to jump. A dust was starting to rise from the hill. As suddenly as it start, it stopped. How long had it lasted? A few seconds?

I turned around. Damage appeared to be minimal. A few drawers had slid themselves open, some small items had fallen over. My adrenaline was pumping, I was at full alert, but I also had a vague unsettled feeling. A vague recollection about the nature of earthquakes. Was it really over? I strained to recall the undoubtedly relevant information.

The sharp sideways push broke the spell. Of course. The energy of an earthquake comes in two fazes, the second being much stronger than the first. I should have moved as soon as I felt the first shock. The motion was increasing and remaining on my feet became increasingly difficult. The hot pan slid off the burner crashing into my shin. I yelled out in pain. The cupboards were throwing their doors open and ejection their contents. Crashing all around me. Dishes and cups and canned food and spices and pots. I dropped to my knees and covered my head and neck while trying to slide into the space under the counter. I head a groan, a crack, a crash. Something that should be too big to move was starting to slide. A splintering snap. The room was starting to tilt as the side to side motion of the ground continued to increase. There was a tremendous boom as the sliding motion became a crashing tumble.

Episode 5

My eyes were closed. I refused to open them for the time being. As long as I didn’t see what was around me, I didn’t have to admit to myself that I was in a new place. Things are disorienting when I move this quickly between lives. Just when I am getting adjusted to a place-time I have to do it again. I wished for a sense of continuity. Almost anything is possible with the proper use of work over time, but I seemed to have both limitless and unusable amounts of time.

My eyes remained closed, but my ears were open. I could hear rain on a metal roof. The regular drip of a leaky gutter. The call of an unhappy crow croaking not too far away. The gentle regular crashing of waves in the distance. As much as I wanted to close the world out, it snuck back in.

Suddenly it was time to move. I sat upright, I had been laying in bed. I looked at the clock which read 6:59 and waited for a few seconds. 7:00 came up and the alarm sounded. I slammed the button on top and swung my legs out of bed. I stood up and walked over to the clothes drying rack and pulled on a pair of running shorts, an athletic t-shirt and nylon jacket shell. I grabbed the pair of socks and walked over to the bench by the door. I quickly pulled on the socks and put on the pair of wet muddy running shoes that sat next to the bench. I tied each shoe and then opened the door and stepped out under the eves of the house.

I put the point of of my right shoe on the ground and turned my ankle in three clockwise circles loosening the joint and ligaments, then reversed the direction for three more turns. I then repeated with my other ankle. It was cold outside, I was going to have to start moving soon. I jumped straight up in the air, clearing the ground by only a few inches and landed on my toes and sprung again without ever letting my heals touch the ground. Ten jumps in rapid succession and I could feel a burning sensation in my calves. I put both hands on one of the wooden posts which framed the door and leaned in with my left leg bent and my right leg extended behind me, with both feet flat on the ground. I could feel the stretch in my calf, held it for a three-count, and then switched sides. Three more rapid jumps and I was ready.

It was odd that I had been standing on the front step for almost a minute now and hadn’t even noticed the scenery in front of me. When you go somewhere often enough, or see a view enough times your mind starts to ignore it. Especially with morning routines. It is possible to drive all the way to work without taking note of any of the surroundings as you pass them. I (which I?) once knew a man who commuted to work on a ferry boat across an incredibly beautiful bay, truly one of the most scenic parts of the world, with islands covered in forested hills in the foreground and snow covered mountains in the distance in almost all directions. This was the type of view that people would vacation just to see a single time. The person I knew, as well as most of his fellow commuters did not marvel and this incredible scenery, staring in awe at the daily splendor that was their daily life. Instead they became numb to the beauty, they sat and chatted in groups, or spent the whole ride with their attention on the daily paper, or maybe a crossword.

I turned my attention outward. Wondering what scene I ignored on my daily run. The yard around the house was small, rain covered grass surrounded by a natural wood fence. There was a wet forest wrapping on all sides of the yard, tall fir and cedar trees covered with moss on all sides. The old back-country trick of knowing direction by looking for moss on the North side of a tree would useless here. The undergrowth was thick. Himalayan black berries, an invasive species to most of the Northern Hemisphere, chocked the edges of the yard. Ferns, huckleberry and salal filled most of the more shaded area under the trees. There was a path surfaced with pea gravel leading to a gap in the fence and a path into the woods.

I strode off the front step and into the rain. It was not very hard at the moment, a little more than a mist, but I would be totally soaked in a matter of minutes. I checked my wrist watch, 7:08. I ran across the yard and into the woods. The ground was mostly level at first and the path surface was flat. Easy running. I increase the pace. It felt good to having the air passing by my ears and through my hair, feeling the small rain drops splash against my face. The path led to a gazebo in a small clear area in the woods. Underneath there were two chairs and a small table with an abandoned tea cup on top of it. From the clearing the path split into several different routes, all of them much smaller and rougher than the original path. I took the one heading to the left, downhill. There were roots and rocks making for slower running. I decreased my pace to a slow jog and made my way down the hill.

The plants were now overhanging the trail on both sides. With each step I was brushing against the bushes, which dumped collected water from every leaf onto my jacket and legs. The shell kept my upper body warm enough, the water was leaking through, but it trapped enough of my body heat for warmth. My legs had water running down them, as if I were in a cool shower.

I bottomed out on the hill as the trail wound back to the right. It was relatively level running again, but the path was still overgrown. I leapt over a small creek and curved to the left again to follow it down stream. I could hear the waves more clearly now, I must have been heading towards the water. The path ended at a beach, although I could see where a route in the sand continued to the right, worn by footsteps having gone through countless times before.

I paused for a minute and looked out into the water. The waves were breaking in a regular pattern. Small waves only a few inches tall. Each one crashing on the beach and then pulling rocks and sand out towards the open ocean, creating a pleasing rattling noise. The creek flowed out to the water in a miniature delta, a single creek splitting into several trickles branching off to reach the water on their own. One large rock a couple hundred feet out in the water, covered with ferns and a few dwarfed trees stuck from the water, but otherwise the water was uninterrupted by any visible land mass. The beach stretched out straight in either direction with a short shore of sand and gravel falling steeply into the water. The tide must have been in with as little beach as was exposed. I could see that if I continued along the water to the right there was a cliff rising perhaps a half a mile in the distance above the water below.

I started running again, feet sinking into the loose ground with each step. This made the running much more difficult. With each step I could feel my foot slipping backwards as I pushed off. I was running slower than I was on the path but was using more effort. As I continued to run down the beach I could feel the fatigue building in my legs. A rubbery feeling. I did not find it disagreeable. It was feedback, letting my know that I was pushing myself hard enough that I would break my muscles enough that they would be forced to grow in response. This was the essence of running.

As I approached the cliffs I could see that they were composed of crumbling sandstone which had fallen unevenly into the water at the base of the cliff. The water was crashing directly at the base of the cliff, there would be no way to continue running below. There was a steep bank covered heavily by under growth directly ahead of me. Off to the right, up a tiny path through the forest around thirty feet from the edge of the beach was a rope coming down the bank up a cleared area in the bushes. I jogged over to it to inspect. The rope was thick, over an inch in diameter, and had evenly space knots every two feet or so up its length. It would be easy enough to grip. The rope stretched around seventy five feet up the hill along steep rutted path of mostly sand and rock. There was a trickle of water flowing down the central rut. It would be a difficult climb without the rope using hands and feet to claw up the hill. With the rope it did not appear challenging.

I took the rope into my hands and tugged on it. It felt secure. I took the first steps up the cliff and leaned back into the rope. It held my weight. I continued climbing step by step matching hand over hand. The progress was slow but steady. Several times my feet slipped when the sand collapsed under my weight, but with my center of balance leaned back into the rope, staying upright was not difficult. As I approached the top I could see that the rope was tied around the base of a large cedar tree which was around ten feet from the top of the bank. I pulled myself to the flat area at the top and inspected the knot. It was a bowline with a few extra hitches. Simple but very secure.

The path swung back to the left and shortly to the right taking it right to the edge of the cliff. I started jogging again. The bank was steep and there were no bushed between the route and the edge. I hadn’t noticed when it changed, but the rain was much harder now. Drops began collecting in my eyelashes. I reached behind my head and pulled the hood on. It had a tiny brim that I pulled low over my eyes to keep the rain out. I looked at my watch, 7:31. Was this route a loop? Was I supposed to go a certain amount of time and turn around? I thought I had been running along the cliff for at least 5 minutes. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable in the rain. When it was just a mist it wasn’t bad, but not that it was much heavier it was soaking through my nylon shell much faster. A steady stream of fresh cold water was chilling me quickly. I had been running for a little bit more that 20 minutes. If I could run the same pace on the way back I would be back inside before 8:00. I decided to turn around.

I increased my pace. I had to focus on the ground to keep my footing. I wouldn’t want to slip here! I hopped over a root here and around a rock there. I was feeling good, running faster and faster. The hood was still down low over my eyes, keeping the rain out, but blocking my peripheral vision. I must have run by a certain low hanging branch before I had put my hood up and ducked it without even noticing that I was doing so. However, without the benefit of my full range of vision I did not know to duck. I slammed head first at full speed into the branch. I was instantly stunned and staggered to my right. One foot on the very edge of the bank. The sand underneath collapsed. A tumble towards a cold splash below. Did I know how to swim?

Episode 4

There was a loud steady whir, stuffy air, a padded seat. I opened my eyes. A blur of light. I was driving a car. I jerked the wheel to pull the car back into the lane, but pulled it to far and had to correct back. I was in control. It was night time and everything outside of the beams of my headlights was in the dark. A deserted two lane highway. I wondered where I was and where I was going. My eyelids felt heavy I had trouble keeping them open. How long had it been since I had last slept.

My had reached down to the center console and grabbed a cup, pulled it up to my lips and I took a sip. Luke warm coffee with too much cream and sugar. I hoped that my plan for staying awake didn’t involved drinking coffee all night. I considered my immediate surroundings. A low seat, shifter coming out of the steering column, back seats visible in the review mirror. I was in a midsized sedan, a GMC by the logo on the steering wheel if my memory was correct. I was going 64 miles per hour and had three quarters of a tank of gas.

I turned on the radio. Static. I was not in same place that I last listened to the radio. Had I been traveling? Was I returning home? I flipped the stations. Only a handful of stations came through and they were all either country or talk. I could be anywhere. I listened to the talk show for a moment. The commentator was upset by a proposed tax hike. It would ruin small business, the real job creators of this country. I turned the radio back off.

The shoulders of the road were thin on either side, just a small strip of dirt sloping to the ground not far below. There were fields surrounding the road, a tall yellow grass, maybe grazing land, with barbed wire separating the fields from the road and an occasional perpendicular fence separating the fields from each other. The lots were big. A minute or more between seeing the dividing fences. At this speed that meant a mile between property boundaries. I was probably somewhere out West. There were no signs of side roads or buildings of any kind. Just occasional ruts in the dirt where people would pull through the fence to access the fields. These were not family farms.

I could see a wide spot in the road ahead. I slowed down, pulled over and turned off the car and the headlights. I opened the car door and the beeping alarm scolded me. I had left the keys in the ignition. Leaving them there, I stepped outside the car and closed the door to silence the alarm. It was cool, not cold. After the steady noise of the car the night was very silent. I could hear a slight breeze blowing through the grass, but no sound of crickets. I walked to the fence line to relieve myself, looking up to the sky when I did. A clear night. No dark veils across the sky blotting out large portions of stars indicating clouds. No moon either. Maybe It had not risen yet or maybe it was a new moon. I spotted the Big Dipper and following the edge of its cup I saw the North Star. The road was headed East-West with my car pointed to the West.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see further into the night. Mostly flat fields to the North with a slight roll. A solitary tree about a quarter mile away. Perhaps an oak. I turned to look to the West. There was a large irregular line stretching up from the horizon and blotting out the stars. It looked distant maybe miles away yet. It was nearly totally black, but with hints of light towards the top, there was still snow. There were higher points to the left and right, but straight ahead it was at the lowest. A mountain range with a mountain pass. This sparked a deep distant memory, from life times ago, walking in the snow. The thought passed. The road might continue straight, through the gap, or take a bend either North or South. It told me nothing of where I was going.

I decided to continue, walked back to my car, opened the door and restarted the key in the ignition alarm, got back in the seat, closed the door, turned the key and pulled on my seat belt, lights on, shifted in to drive, foot on the gas and I was moving again. Everything was automatic. No searching for the switches, no doubt where the seatbelt would be or about the strength it would take to shift in the proper gear. I took for granted that every world that I found myself in was seemingly built for me. Slow steady acceleration, I was in no hurry. As the sound of the road under the tires reached the right frequency I lifted slightly on the accelerator. I looked down to check the speed, 64 miles per hour. I marveled at the act of faith it took to drive an unknown road at 64 in the dark. How did I know that that road didn’t have a sharp bed, an unavoidable pothole or even an animal carcass in it just beyond the view of my headlights? Would I be able to react in time if it did? Yet my faith did not waiver. You no longer question an action, sensible or not, if done often enough.

A fifth sign: “Silver Lake, ELEV 4,345, POP about 6”. Not much of a town. I slowly noticed lights building in the distance. At first a subconscious awareness that something was a little different, then realizing that there were lights ahead, and finally deciding that they must be buildings on either side of the road. A minute passed and then a second with the lights only gradually growing in brightness slowly pulling apart from a single light into two and then several distinct lights. A road sign, the first one I had noticed, warned of a speed zone ahead, 45 miles per hour. A second sign confirmed that the speed limit was now 45. I changed my speed only after the second sign down to 54. The lights were getting close. A third sign updated the speed to 35 and a fourth enforced it. I slowed again. There was now clear buildings ahead. A farmhouse on the left, only 50 feet off the highway. Only a porch light on illuminating the front. A general store on the right, only separated from the highway by a small parking area. Six angle-in spots, one for each person in town, but all empty.

I came to a stop to look a moment longer. Behind the store was a run down single wide trailer with a 70’s vintage chevy pickup truck in front. Most likely the store owner. Two more buildings with lights on ahead yet on the road was all that made up this town. The store had a single gas pump out front. A sign read regular – 1.27 9/10. I had never bought gas that cheap. The pump looked broken, long since abandoned, the sign left with the last rate at which they sold their last gallon of gas many years ago. The store advertised various beers and the weekly special with pictures of women and cars. I paid as little notice as I could. The building itself was in poor shape. An old roof, probably leaky, windows patched with cardboard in places, yellow paint pealing off of sun distressed wood. A place like this didn’t seem to have many years before the cost of repairing it would way exceed any possible profit it would generate. In another few years the store would go out of business, maybe when the store owner finally died of old age, and there would be little reason to stay in this town and everyone would eventually leave.

I lingered a moment longer, waiting for a sign of life, but did not even hear the usual barking of a dog the vigilant watchmen of every small town. No reason to stay. I lifted my foot from the break and stepped on the gas, a little heavier than before, I wanted to leave this place behind me. The air in the car was beginning to cool off. I turned the heat on, and adjusted it to blow down by me feet. The was immediately warmer, but stuffy and dusty. It was as if I had not used the heater in a long time. I closed my eyes for a second, the were bothered now, slightly inflamed by the new air. I turned the heat down. How much longer did I have to drive before reaching my destination? The road was flat and straight, the land around it featureless.

I yawned and felt my eyes close. I rested them for a second and then opened again. Another quick break of the eyes. I could tell what was happening. Bit by bit I was lulling myself to sleep. I had recollections of this happening before. The head nod followed by a panicked snapping back to full alertness and swearing that I would not let it happen again and promising myself that I would pull over at the next wide spot in the road and take a nap before I drove any further. But this time was different. I felt a deep calm fall across my body. I already knew what was going to happen. My fate was sealed. By choosing not to fight I found myself enjoying the moment. As my eyes slipped closed again I was vaguely away of something large ahead in the road.

Episode 3

I was suddenly completely awake. I had been sleeping. A deep total sleep, oblivious to to the passage of time and my surroundings. It can be hard to get know what’s going on jarred out of a sleep like that. I was outside, it was very dark and something had woken me up. I was wrapped up tight and warm, perhaps in a sleeping bag, but I could feel the cold of the air on my nose and cheeks. With a breath in the cold air burned my lungs. Was I back on the mountain, or was that just a dream? It seemed a long time ago, very far away. I gradually became aware of starlight filtering through tree branches above. I was not in a tent or under a tarp or in any other form of shelter. The sky looked clear, no signs of clouds. That must have been the reason I was sleeping out, but clear skies always mean cold nights.

I thought about walking through the snow for a second and then the thought was replaced with a face. The girl from the balcony. Short hair, freckles, cute but not pretty. Short in stature and skinny, but a larger presence. Not meek. Someone who looked at you while you talked, didn’t avoid eye contact. Not afraid to express her opinion, but not worried about being right. The though of her still brought a tingle on each breath. My heart beat quickened at first at then relaxed. I wondered if I loved her, in another life. I wondered what sort of life she had? Was she jumping from existence to existence like I was? Or did she have a linear life? That was the name I had come up with for the way living should be. One single life, from being born to death, in a nice neat linear fashion. Her life could not be like mine, but I don’t think that mine was like this when I was talking to her. There was a sense of permanence, of being in the right place, a sense of home. Feelings that I always seemed to have memories of, but could never touch anymore.

As my mind wandered her face gradually slipped away. The dreamy feeling that of forgetting something important, but not being able to remember why it was. The passage of time can be deceptive. A second can seem to last for minutes and a year mere months. When involved in an intense prolonged activity or lost deep in thought warps in perception of time occur. Something that happened yesterday can feel distant while memories from years ago much more immediate. How long had I been laying there? I wondered what time it was and found myself bringing my left wrist towards my face, taping a button on the watch that I was apparently wearing and illuminating the face. An analog watch, but a modern one. Separate dials for the days of the week and the month. A complicated dial for figuring out times in other time zones. An hour hand and minute hand, but no second hand. Although my body was perfectly accustomed to checking this watch to tell the time, my mind is very bad at reading them. Had I grown up in a single body and used only a digital watch? Had I even grown up? I knew that this way I was living was not normal, but had no memory of what my normal life had been and yet I had a strong feeling of what normal was. I must have had a different experience where my ability to think was formed. I knew language, but not how I learned it. I knew how to think critically and analyze situations, but not details specific to my situation. Was I a soul more than a mind? Someone who had lived their life and was now acting in behalf of people who were too afraid to die one their own? It would explain why I always seemed to show up in a new body just before it died. On a line to a death I knew was coming, but found impossible to avoid.

Focusing on the watch again I saw that it was around four in the morning. Depending on season it might start getting light soon. Or it could stay dark for several more hours. The clock showed June on the month dial. It was almost time for the solitace. If I were in the northern hemisphere it would be the lightest time of the year. The maximum amount of light in the day. In Northern Alaska or near the pole the sun might never set. It would be opposite if I were South of the Equator and near the equator season would hardly matter at all. I tried to decide whether it was summer or winter. It was cold, but I could be at a high elevation elevation. Thin cold mountain air can be indistinguishable from winter air in the lower lands. I tried to recognize starts in the sky. Perhaps I could recognize a constellation. I knew that the Southern skies are different than those in the North. I couldn’t make out the shapes of the stars well enough through the trees and could not even remember if I was interested in astronomy or not. Would I know which stars I was looking at even if I could see them clearly? I decided that it would be simpler to wait until morning to find out. I tried to turn off my mind and go to sleep. No luck.

This was unusual, still time. I felt like I was in a sensory deprivation chamber. There was so little input to my senses compared to the city I had jump been in. There were few sounds, mild smells. The smell of a forest is subtle. A hint of pine and earth. A slight smell of decomposing needles. No loud smells like in the city. No Indian curry, no car exhaust, no dumpsters in the alleys. The lack of light can be startling. In the city you can always see. There are street lights, car lights, store fronts, everywhere you look a million light bulbs. You can close your blinds, add curtains, but a little light always slips in. And that does not include the lights on the inside. The alarm clock, the computer, the charging cellphone. Each with a tiny diode emitting a tiny amount of light. The total effect is that you can almost read with the sum of the light. The stars provide enough light to make out large shapes, especially when you look up and see things back lit. But the ground is almost impossible to see. Nothing has color. Everything is black.

No place to go, nothing to do. No way to check out my immediate surroundings. If I had a flashlight, I had no idea where it was. Nothing to do but wait and think. This would be an ideal time to consider my situation. There would be no distractions. No full body urges to find its fate. My heart jumped, I heard snap, maybe a twig. Something was off. It was not a normal night time noise. My ears strained to hear the sound again. I held my breathe. My heart was beating in my hears loud and rhythmical, there was a soft breeze in the tree tops high above, maybe the sounds of water in the distances, my tense shallow breath. Was there anything that sounded amiss? No birds this time a night, too cold for the insects, there might be a rodent on a scurried search for food. Then I heard it. A blast of air as if a locomotive were releasing steam. Something with powerful lungs. Something large. Something close.

Episode 2:

I found my self inside a large room sitting at a table. It was warm and humid and I was surrounded by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the drone of a dozen conversations. I was in a coffee shop. I must have chosen wrong again. As I have so many times before. This has happened to me before. I’d be in a bad situation, sometimes dangerous, sometimes just weird. The deciding moment would be about to happen and then I would open my eyes in a different time and place. I would be in a different body which would have it’s own agenda. I was definitely still me. My thoughts in my head, but something would be different. I would go to the right place without knowing where I was going or why.

What had happened on that mountain? I was in a bad place, but there were still decisions and actions to be made. My fate was never sealed. But here I was. Another dead me? Perhaps I’ll never know. When this first started happening – or has it always been happening I don’t remember life before it – I would try to analyze each previous life. But my new body always gets restless, it always has its own agendas. Luckily this time my new body seemed content to drink the cup off coffee in front of it. A sip of coffee. Still warm. It was strong and bitter, brewed dark and without cream or sugar added. Very soon I would stop thinking of my mind and body as separate entities. The mind can quickly make leaps of perspective when reality requires it.

The details from one reality to the next, or maybe more accurately one life to the next, are always hazy. I know that I was climbing that mountain pass with a sense of purpose. It was important for me to get to the other side. But I have no recollection what that purpose was. To meet someone? Deliver important news? Was I running from someone or just trying to keep moving to get out of the snow. Each time I start a life the previous one is like a dream. Some details are vivid and I remember them in exquisite detail, but most are just a blur. Like looking at another world through a smudged lens.

Time for the bathroom. Did a different me leave put me in this position? Or have I been here all along? The urgent reality of the situation didn’t allow for contemplation at the moment. Luck is in my favor for the moment. There is a clearly marked men’s room within easy eyesight. One of the only consistencies of manifestations is that I am always a man and from what I can tell a relatively young one. Business taken care of, I washed my hands. Warm water, lots of soap, I take my time. I’ve never understood whey so many people rush through it. Often just pushing their hands under a splash of water without even using soap. They rub their hands together for a second and call it good. It is unsanitary, more a rinse than really washing, but that’s not my main objection. The warm water is relaxing the soap soothing. My hands feel fresh and and smell good after a good washing. It is important to take notice of life’s simple pleasures.

After washing my hands I saw that I needed to face one of life’s minor pains. I have always hated automatic paper towel dispensers. You can never count on getting a paper towel when you need one. At times I have suspected that they are intended to operate by tricking you into waving your hands under the sensor in a futile attempt to receive a towel until your hands have been air dried and you no longer need the towel. As you walk away, cursing the “advances” in technology, your paper towel arrives, not longer needed. These machines, even when operating properly, will only give you one tiny piece of towel. This piece is not even big enough to fully dry your hands.

This particular machine was not operating properly. No paper towel for me. I wiped my hands on the back of jeans. Not sanitary and not a good plan in light colored pants, but I was wearing the right clothes for the job. I took notice of the rest of my attire. A grey cotton t-shirt. Comfortable but plain. A zip-up black hooded sweatshirt that smelled vaguely of smoke. The previously mentioned jeans, a proper fitting pair, which seems rare these days. Not urban-baggy hip-hop and not metro-skinny legged hipster. A pair of athletic shoes black on white well worn with a reflective logo on the back heel. Not the height of fashion, but I would fit in a lot of places. Odd that I focused first on the clothes and not the body.

I looked in the mirror. I knew that I had never seen this face before, and yet I knew that it was me. My life was full of these contradictions, if you can even call it my life. A long nose, blue eyes and short stringy black hair. Pale skin. I didn’t look tall, but I’m not sure what reference I was using. Slim build. In a word, forgettable.

I waited for a second. I knew that what I was supposed to be doing would come to me. An unspoken siren song. It was as if my pre-grown new body had it’s mission and I was along for the ride. I needed to leave. I walked back into the shop, hardly noticing the people as I passed through the room and out the front door. It was warm outside and humid. Just as it was in the shop. I wondered if I was in the South. Turned left on 6th street. A slight rise in the hill. I was used to walking fast. Nowhere to go, but in a hurry to get there. Moving always felt right to me. Especially at a walking pace. I would quickly get frustrated if I were stuck for too long in anyone place. Plane rides in particular, where you aren’t even free to walk around the cabin for most of the flight, are the worst. Feels like cattle off to the slaughter. And for that one in a million flight, or four per million if you fly those budget airlines, it is to the slaughter.

Walking is better. More dangerous statistically. Especially in the big cities where you can get hit by a car at any moment, but at least you’d be living when you die. Moving under your own power. Feeling natural air. Maybe the sun or the rain on your face and shoulders. Not a sterilized, season-less, climate controlled coffin. The outdoors is a place to live.

Lost in my thoughts several blocks went by without me noticed. It must have be a big city, no one looked me in the eye, smiled or waved at me, or acknowledged my presence, aside from stepping aside to let me by when the sidewalk narrowed. How is it possible to feel lonely among so many people? I took a right after another eight or nine blocks. Perhaps I was going home. The route felt very familiar, as if I had walked it a thousand times before.

I recognized a balcony on a building with a roof at an odd angle. It looked alpine, too steep of a pitch compared to all of the other buildings in the area. I had been at a party there. I remembered smoking a cigarette on the balcony talking to a girl. Maybe I kissed her? Or maybe I just wanted too. Suddenly the urge to smoke was overwhelming. On muscle memory alone my right hand went into the kangaroo pouch on my hoodie at the same time my left hand pulled out the lighter from my left front jean pocked. Marlboro Reds in soft-pack. I tapped the front of the pack against my left wrist and pulled out a cigarette with my lips. Cigarettes back in the pocket lighter applying flame and lighting the cigarette. All of this without a conscious thought.

As I pulled the smoke into my lungs I stopped on the corner and looked more intently at the balcony and the window behind it. Was this someone else’s memory or had I been there? The smoke filled my lung and I could feel the familiar tickle of the tar coating the inside surfaces. The light was on and people were moving inside. My brain wanted me to go inside and see who was there. If I could find out anything about who I was. My body wanted to keep walking. I knew that I would eventually lose the battle of will, but I decided to stay a moment longer at the corner. Another drag. I could feel the tingle and little bit of a head rush. I must not have smoked very often anymore. A decreased nicotine tolerance, but the urges and muscle habits of someone who smoked everyday. Maybe I was trying to quit. The party had been dull. Not my type of people. The wrong music. But she had saved my night. All it takes is a connection with a single person, a spark of interest, and nothing else really matters. I wondered if I could find her, but realised I didn’t even know her name.

It was time to move on. I took another drag from the cigarette and tapped the small ember out with my finger on to the street. I snuffed it quickly with a twist of the toe of my shoe and flicked the butt into the trash can. As I stepped into the street I gave the balcony a long last glance soaking in the feelings of the memory. Headlights out of the corner of my eyes. A horn. Tires squeal.

My 30 Lives

Episode 1:

I was hiking along a snow field.  The going was difficult, but not dangerous.  At least not yet.  My feet were cold and wet, the melting slush had long since made it’s way through my shoes, but I was still plenty warm.  One step in front of another.  Always looking down.  My whole world white.  Anytime I could have looked up and seen the tall granite peaks above me, needle like thrust into the air, but I rarely did.  I was in the high mountains, the air was fresh but thin.  Each breath brought almost half as much oxygen as the air at sea level provides.  A hard stark world of rock and ice and little else.

When you are doing hard physical work, your world shrinks.  You can only think about your next step, you can only see straight ahead of you.  This is good in a way.  If your task is huge, you only focus on the tiny bit that you can manage at the moment.  Rather than becoming paralyzed at consider how much work must be done, you are able to proceed.  My task was monumental.  A mountain pass high above.  Fading daylight.  Questionable weather.  I knew all of these things, but none of them were immediate.  The only thing that mattered at the moment was to continue moving forward.

It is times like this that it is more important than usual to stop and look at the big picture.  To stop doing the little things that make life possible for a moment and make sure they are taking you in the right direction.  This is true of most moments in life, but rarely are the consequences of failing to do so very high.  In the mountains every truth is magnified every mistake is multiplied.  This is not to say mountains cannot be traveled safely, it just takes more care than other activities.  Simply put, the stakes are higher.  A series of inconsequential actions, each one taken alone is harmless, can add up to disaster.

I ignored the thunder clouds in the distance.  I knew that these storms can approach rapidly and be right over you in a matter of minutes, but they sounded so far away.  When you are walking in snow the only thing you can hear is the crunch of it under your feet, you heavy breath, your heart beat.  The focus of all of your attention is on the ground directly ahead of you.  Your next step.  Your next breath.  Everything else seems so far removed from your experience that they might as well be on another planet.  The hill was starting to become a little steeper with each mile traveled.  Still not treacherous, but that part was coming up soon.

I had slept several miles back, next to a river.  It was cold, but my tent kept the snow off.  It was a good spot, tucked in among a stand of lodge pole pine trees, on a small shoulder of the hill safely above the river level.  The wind had been mild and the snow quieted the already silent forest.  No animal noises that night and no birds welcoming the morning with their songs.  Totally quiet, if not for the steady rumbling of the river.

There is an interesting effect of fresh snow falling on old snow.  Under certain conditions, the fresh snow can pull the water out of the old snow.  This happens in particular when the old snow is well compacted and piled deep.  The new snow will act as an insulator and the old snow near the surface will be frozen from the snow beneath it.  Even when the sun hits the new snow, the hard frozen layer underneath will remain solid and unmelted.  As I slept that last previous night this process was taking place.  The seemingly insignificant three inches of new snow, which would be not problem if it fallen on bare earth, or even if it had remained cold enough to stay light and fluffy, was now becoming a major problem.

Each step I was taking was in a puddle.  Not standing water, that would have been much better.  It was frozen slush.  A little bit at a time I was losing feeling in my feet.  It was a slow process.  As long as you keep moving the body generates a lot of heat and walking will keep legs and feet in particular warm, but fresh cold slushy water rushing into the shoe with every step starts to take it’s toll.  First it starts at the tips of the toes.  A little numbness.  Gradually it makes its way into the joints of the toe, into the feet, and to the calves.  If you can still feel the numbness you are not in trouble.  Oddly enough it is the lack of pain that you need to be worried about.  It is as if your body has given up the fight to keep your freezing flesh alive.  I was not at this point.  My body was still warm and I was moving.

It was the other effect of the new snow that would prove to be more problematic.  As the slope of the snow continued to increase I would make the transition from hiking to climbing.  Where is the line that separates those activities?  Is it when you are first at danger of slipping?  Most people will walk past that divider without thinking twice.  Is it when a fall would injure you or kill you?  Is it when you cannot possibly continue without changing styles of movement?  Putting on crampons, pulling out the ice axe, or starting to use your hands?  Which ever it is, it can sneak up on you.  You think you are walking normally, the hill changes slope all the time.  In the mountains nothing is flat.  If you aren’t walking up, then you are going down.  At some point the hill becomes steep enough and you find your self a little more exposed than you want.

I had not paid much notice to the slope, but when my foot slipped out from under me I was forced to catch myself with my arms.  Two wet gloves.  Normally a minor inconvenience, but another cold extremity.  The soft snow on the surface which had been a factor of great annoyance actually helped me stop my fall quickly in this case, but on the steeper slopes ahead would be useless.  I took note of my fall and put on my crampons and began to carry my ice axe in my hand.  I was now ready to climb.

It rapidly became apparent that it was going to take a monumental amount of work to continue moving forward.  With each step the loose fresh snow on top would compress to a point forming a larger clod of snow then slide across the hard snow underneath it.  These clods of snow that it would form were hard, puck like, and would clog the spikes of my crampons.  I would have to clear the fresh snow off of the old snow to be able to get proper footing.  This slowed me down considerably.  What might in other conditions have taken me and hour would now take me much longer.  I began to climb, slowly.

Several more steps and I stopped and looked up.  The route to the pass was obvious at this point.  Straight up the snow field and then a quick traverse to the right, it was too steep under the pass to approach it directly.  This last part, the sideways movement to the right, that would be the most dangerous part.

Climbing straight up it is easy to keep your balance.  Liking climbing a flight of stairs.  Keep your weight a little forward.  Lean into the ice axe if you are feeling a off balance and be sure of your footing.  It is almost a mechanical act.  Once you get into the rhythm of climbing you no longer have to think about the motions, they take care of them self.  Everything now and then stop and look up and make sure your on the right track.  Correct your path if necessary and then back to the rhythm.

It is the traverse that is dangerous.  A side slope means the same foot is higher with every step.  Your ice axe is in your up hill hand and ideally gets planted in a solid fashion between every step.  Three points of contact with the snow, two feet and the ice axe, with no more than one in the air at a time.  A slip is trickier.  If you fall you are not in an ideal situation to stop yourself immediately it takes some time to roll into proper positions.  If you do it right, you can be breaking yourself before you pick up any speed, but a little mistake means you are going too fast to stop by the time you are prepared to slow yourself down.

I was still on the straight approach when the thunder clouds came in.  In very sudden fashion the thunder went from distant to immediate.  The sky darkened.  Loud crashes filled the small glacial cirque.  Lighting rolling across the sky.  Boiling angry dark clouds.  How had I not noticed until they were right above?  I thought back to the warning signs.  They were all there.  Afternoon in the mountains.  Thunder in the distance.  A rising wind earlier that in had not taken conscience not of.

The pass was only 500 feet away, but the most difficult part remained.  To go forward meant climbing into a thunder storm.  To go back, retreat.  I had worked hard to climb to the point that I had.  I would have to do it again the next day if turned around.  Throwing away good work, hard work, is one of the most difficult choices to make.  I had expended so much energy to reach the point I had.  It was time to consider my options.

What is NaNoWriMo?  It is National Novel Writing Month.  An exercise where writers attempt to write an entire 50,000 word novel in one month.

Why am I posting about it?  Because I am “competing” in the event this year.  Starting tomorrow I will try to post 1,666 words a day for the next 30 days to reach the goal for the month.

Wish me luck!