Scorpion King; Coyboy dreams

This is the Great Scorpion Charm against Demons. The image is from www.luckyscoprion.com, where you can buy it for six bucks. I have a problem with demons. They follow me everywhere in ridiculous disguises, tripping me in the street and forcing me to make unwise purchases in markets. The woodblock print is a charm or an amulet, of Buddhist origin, which is meant to be either folded, wound in string and worn on the body, ingested, or placed in a special amulet box. The following info is from Nik Douglas' "Tibetan Tantric Charms and Amulets."

"The mouth contains the formula tri-dsa-du / sa-na-ga-phu, the head the dharanis (1) ah-ya-ma-du-rur-chasa-na-zhamaya-hum and (2) om-ah-hum-artsig-nirtsig-namo-bhagawate-hum-hum-phat-phat. At the center and main extremeties are the seed syllables hum, dsa, hum, bam, and ho. The Tibetan incantation mentions the types of demons to be protected against and at the six legs, two pincers and sting is an inscription in Tibetan declaring that 'the demons will roar.'"

Artsig, nirtsig, namo. Hmm.

*

This Cormac McCarthy book I just read must have penetrated deeper into my subconscious than I thought. Or maybe that's a bunch of bullshit, I mean, that dreams are constructed by the unseen hand of the undermind. Psychoanalysts have their lists of symbols and situations, their rhebus's (rhebi?), their condensation and displacement. But the rest of us wake up, rub our faces in our hands, and think, "Shit, that was a fucked up dream I had last night."

Of course, dreams are bizarre by nature. After a lifetime of inexplicable scene changes and recurring familial tableaus, you'd think we'd get used to it. I don't spend much time plumbing them for deeper meanings. They're like B-movies about yourself, and you ge to sleep through them. Here's what I watched last night.

I'm riding across an plain on horseback, ahead of a gang of about 5. I've got one of those lever-action rifles associated with the Wild West with a sight on the barrel. The plain up ahead rolls up into a softly cresting hill, long grasses swaying in the wind. Down the incline and to my left lies a gully and a grove of pines, stunted cypress clustered around a single enormous redwood with a massive trunk. Over the crest of the hill comes the cavalry. They're uniformed in blue with white hats, red plumes ticking to the rhythm of the hoofbeats, armed with the same rifle I've got. I reign up my horse and take aim at a staggered line of horsemen galloping full bore towards my position. I shoot, one flips down off his horse like a vertical wind sock taken aback by a sudden gust. I raise my sight and trap another horseman in the tiny steel circle, circumscribing his fate in less than a centimeter, and fire. He tumbles backwards. They are getting within range of taking shots, but for some reason they don't. When they get too close for comfort I duck behind my horse, hanging onto the saddle as they rocket past. When they're passed me to a man I circle around and follow then, sighting and dispatching a few more riders.

Now we hit a blank spot where the action got murky, or a sudden scene change, or maybe I just can't remember the dream in detail. But I'm on the defensive, making for the pine grove. When I get there I'm confronted by a detail of cavalry, posted to stymie my retreat. I dismount, resigned to capture, but not yet resigned to defeat. Their leader is a large bearded man, ununiformed, who wears a fur trapper's motley assortment of pelts and leather. He looks at me with a knowing expression.

"We're taking you in, son."

"I can't face trial," I say. "I can't go back to the United States. I'm a bandit, and the only thing waiting for me is the gallows. Better to die out here."

*

The premise that you can't die in your dreams is well tried in popular movies and culture. You suddenly wake up before the concrete rises to flatten you like a bug. Hand in hand with this goes the premise that if you really die in your dreams you die in real life. I can now attest that there is a third option.

*

I swing my rifle and crank the lever to load another round, inverting the barrel and inserting it into my mouth. Unfortunately, the trigger is now out of reach and my booted feet will not allow me to toe the trigger. I eye the old man.

"Little help here? I'd be much obliged."

"My pleasure."

He reaches down and pulled the trigger. I don't feel anything at first, and think the gun misfired. After a few seconds my mouth fills up with liquid, and I know that the bullet made a fine escape from the crown of my skull. Suddenly I'm wearing the brass-buttoned blue garb of the good guys, riding again for the grove.

*

There's a struggle with another bandit, some arguments about succession of the priesthood (a bishop was killed and a giant man with long black hair in a purple robe ascended to his place) and a stack of bodies, but it's now been almost an hour since I dragged myself out of bed and the order of events and their details lacks even the most basic continuity.

The point being that I like to write and talk about dreams. If you do too, put an account of an interesting dream in the comments section of this post. The most interesting dream will get some sort of prize. I haven't decided what it is yet.

Someone is screaming down the hall of my building, a hoarse throaty man's voice followed by a piercing child's scream. It's either domestic violence or a futbol game - it's often hard to tell. Or maybe its a demon orgy. Artsig, nirtsig, namo.