Race Relations is a Two-Way Street

"Indian Giver" is a racist term.  It means to give something freely, but then take it back later.

I'm not going to gain any popularity by voicing an opinion on this subject, I'm sure.  I may even garner some hateful threats, reminiscent of the scandalous blog about Chewbacca having homosexual feelings for Han Solo.  People tend to only read what they wanna read.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a hundred percent certain on the historical records regarding the love/hate relationship between Canada and it's indigenous population, but as a citizen, I do harbour some feelings and attitudes towards the rhetoric that I see in the media.  Most times, I keep my thoughts to myself, because if taken out of context, which most often opinions are taken out of context, my beliefs may come off as insensitive or even racist towards First Nations people.

I'm just one (of many) who are growing increasingly tired of past transgressions of our ancestors being thrust onto our modern day doorsteps.  The arrogance of the white man as he stepped off wooden ships onto an untamed world, lush with forest, grasslands and primitive peoples, could have been and should have been handled with more grace and understanding.  The long game should have played a factor into the relationships between European settlers and the indigenous people.  I'll grant you that fact.  The relationship, however, was a two-way street.  For as many infractions made by whites, I'm sure there were some reneging on the part of the First Nation peoples.

My father owned a slick black 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible when he first moved to Saskatoon.  It was a car originally from Arizona and he loved that car.  As a young man with a new family, he had to sell the car to purchase a newer, more reliable car, as many young men of responsibility need to do and he sold his precious ride for a mere $400.  It was something that he long regretted and often looked back with seller's remorse.  He never once voiced an opinion that the buyer duped him out of his car.  That he was ripped off, nor did he ever once consider returning to the buyer to take back his car.  He never blamed others for his regrettable choices.

Grant you, when he sold the car, $400 was a reasonable amount, just as giving up some land to white settlers for some blankets and booze or whatever the exchange was, was fair trade two or three hundred years ago.  Looking back today, four hundred dollars for a future classic automobile, seems like chump change, as does the exchange of currency for land seems undervalued.

The river runs far deeper than that.  There's the subject of Cultural Genocide.  The apparent obliteration of native culture, language and beliefs by French colonists.  There's materials describing the heinous acts of First Nation children being forcefully removed from homes, forced to live in Residential School System.  At the time, it was viewed as a valuable process of assimilating the young Indian children into the West European/Canadian culture and way of life.  The method was labelled "killing the indian in the child".  The children were not allowed (and often punished) for speaking their native language or practicing their own religion or culture.  The primary goal was to convert the indigenous children into Christianity and to "civilize" them.

That was wrong.  I had nothing to do with it.  I'm not Christian nor am I French-Canadian, but that aside.  The whole ordeal was wrong.  I apologize for the insensitive nature of our history.  That's the thing, though.  It's history.  Just as the United States can't go back and erase the blunders of slavery.  Or Germany can't rewrite it's own contributions to the Jewish Holocaust.  We, as Canadians, can't go back and rewrite our own fucked up history.

For decades Canadian Prime Ministers and the Federal Government have been incessantly apologizing for the shortcomings of our ancestors.  Apologies have been made, financial restitution has been made multiple times.  Programs put in place to make the lives of indigenous people easier and to assist in moving forward.  First Nation art and culture has been embraced and thrust into our immediate society.  Hell, I can't drive anywhere in this city and not see any of the aboriginal art on display in one aspect or another.  I even have one of those little stone men things in my living room (although I fail to see how this is considered art...  Just sayin'.)

Art?  Seriously?

At some point, enough has to be enough.  To improve the relationship between aboriginal peoples and the rest of Canada, efforts need to be made on both sides.  If situations are bad in small Inuit communities, then funnel some of that casino money into improving the situations.  Use the programs put in place by the Canadian government to better yourselves.  For crying out loud, "Status Indians" get FREE post-secondary education, a financial tab that can run up to several tens of thousands of dollars, sometimes hundreds of thousands for us non-indian citizens.  I mean, what the fu---?!?

I've been unemployed for most of the last two years, because I fail to meet certain visible ethnic attributes.  I haven't let that get me down (entirely), but instead took the initiative to acquire other training to make myself look better on paper.  That was all completely out-of-pocket.  No subsidies to help me educate myself.  I'm not complaining.  It is what it is.  The tools are in place to better their lives.  There's really no excuse.

According to a National Household Survey conducted in 2011, people who had Aboriginal identity made up just 4.3% of the national population.  Of those incarcerated in our prisons, approximately 71% of them are Aboriginal.  There seems to be an outcry of injustice, but when you watch the news or pick up a paper, it's primarily indigenous people committing the crime.  Most of which, I believe, is native-on-native crimes.  Doesn't excuse the fact, but it's still a fact.

I don't hope to correct any injustices to First Nations in this article, nor do I believe it'll change anyone's outlook on the situation.  I damn sure doubt any First Nation people will read this blog and jump up in declaration, "Damn it!  He's right!  We HAVE been unreasonable!!"  Mostly, I needed to vent.  If we're being honest, I doubt anyone will read this blog at all.

Race relations in this country is a two way street.  When I was a kid, my parents split-up.  My mom took me and my sister away from the farm and moved into the city.  The apartment building that we wound up in, was primarily native people and within one week of getting settled, I answered a knock at the door and was greeted with a fist in my face.  The Indian male forced me back into the small apartment and proceeded to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of me.  I can remember vividly, being curled up in a ball, struggling not to swallow the teeth that had just been smashed in my mouth and receiving a further pummeling of my back.  When it was all said and done.  I was informed that "he" was the big bad Indian on the block and to not forget it.  To this day, I don't see how this was a method to improve the relations between our cultures.

That beating wasn't the only time I feared for my safety.  On two separate occasions, one in Prince Albert and another over by my mother's house, I overheard the comments, "Hey let's jump whitey."  The Prince Albert incident, I continued to walk down the street, pretending I hadn't heard what I'd heard.  The time in the city, here, I was with my mom, and I suspect that may have been why the lads chose not to gnarl this white boy.

I'm not saying that whites have never beaten the shit out of a native or two.  I'm sure it happens, but as I stated.  Race relations are a two-way street.

This week Prince William and Kate Middleton are set to land on Vancouver Island to tour the island as well as, the Yukon Territory.  Of the many festivities scheduled during their visit, they're also going to be confronted on the issues of cultural inequality and past transgressions against the indigenous people, including the estimated 150,000 children who were placed into state-run schools (by French colonists).  I'm not sure what they (First Nations) is hoping to achieve by these accusations.  Apparently, "SORRY" isn't good enough.

Comedian Christopher Titus once stated in one of his stand-up specials that: When you point a finger, three more point back at you.  Meaning no one is completely to blame.  Some burden of responsibility needs to be taken by yourself, as well.

When Western Europeans landed on this great country, indigenous people extended a hand of friendship and the Europeans proceeded to take advantage of the primitive folk and screwed them over at every chance.  Whites made repeated deals of "fair" trade and treaties of peace, only to renege and f*ck the First Nation people over again and again. ... Kind of gives new meaning to the term "Indian Giver", doesn't it?

The purpose of this blog was not intended to instill hate or racial insensitivity.
It would be defeating the message of equality if this were the case.

Death To Them All!!

Like a scene from The Amazing Spider-Man, the web extended across the entire opening of my garage.  I feared to speculate exactly what the spider was hoping to entangle in such an extravagant monstrosity of webbing, but found it even more troubling to have to rush to find a viable entrance into the garage.  Time was of the essence and I found myself doing that familiar dance in my driveway.  The combination of twisting, turning and struggle to rid myself of clinging strands of webbing.  I was only gone a couple of hours and upon my return home, the busy spider had repaired all the damage from where I'd infiltrated.

I've often struggled with the logic of WHY we need spiders?  They eat all the insects and flying bugs.  Alright.  I'll give you that one.  WHY do we need so many god damned insects and flying bugs, then?  What purpose do they serve?  They help plants to feed and grow.  Okay.  I'll give you that one, but WHY do we need so may damned varieties?  No answer?  Gotcha!!

This is further proof that there's no God.  If there is, there's no logic in why shit is the way it is!  Case and point; The Platypus.  A beaver with a duck bill who lays eggs.  The drugs must've been free flowing that day.

There's NO NEED for spiders.  Seriously.  Get rid of them all.  If we need spiders, then keep one species.  We don't need separate spiders for the forest, then another for the desert and another for urban environments then another for...  It's bullshit.  Just one.

I freakin' HATE spiders and I don't know many people who do like them.  There are those few who like to have them as pets.  I still scratch my head on the idiocy of that choice, but PEOPLE!!!  Choose another pet!!  For instance, get a gerbil.  They're small, furry and creepy looking.

What about Spider-Man?  They're fun movies to watch and comics to read, but that's all make believe.  I'm talking real life.  I'm sure you can get the same charm and charisma from a hero bitten by a radioactive gerbil.  Besides, when I'm watching the Spider-Man movies, a part of my brain is thinking about all the god damned webs left unattended in New York City.

I find tend to find a lot of spiders in my house.  I don't know how they get in here, nor do I know what they hope to catch in my basement.  With exception to a few ants, my home is essentially insect-free.  There's nothing to catch here, but my annoyance and anger.  However, like the ants that I discover, I make a deal with each and every culprit.  I tell them that IF they're able to survive being flushed, then they have an open invitation to live in my home for as long as they wish to stay.  Thankfully, no one has survived and even if they do, I'm quick to re-neg on my deal.

Worst of all, is my poor house.  I live in a four-level split and it's riddled with spider webs all over the siding.  I don't have the means to hose them off, at the moment, so my house is beginning to look like the Haunted Mansion on the corner.  I'm not real enthused about the whole situation.

I just finished having a back-and-forth debate on the impending doom / American election.  As a Canadian, I'm unable to vote, but I'd proudly back whichever candidate if one of the campaign promises was to obliterate the world of spiders.

Be Calm. It Was Just a False Alarm

I'm not going to lie to you, but it's been kind of a tense few weeks for yours truly.  About three weeks ago, in preparation for a visit to my diabetic counselor, I was sent for blood work, to monitor various levels of my blood in my daily battle with Type II Diabetes.  Within a couple of hours, I received an urgent phone call from my doctor, in reference to the test results.  Normally, I don't concern myself too much with such trivialities, but when a physician, especially one as busy as mine, takes time out of her busy day to place a personal phone call, one has no choice but to sit up and take notice.  She informed me that my platelet count was abnormally low and that I should return for another blood test the following week.

In the olden days, before the internet, news such as this would cause the mind to race in a thousand directions, imagination taking over and running thousands more scenarios.  These days, with the advent of the worldwide web, a diagnosis is available at one's finger tips and I wasted no time typing "low platelets" into Google and was not very encouraged by the results.  Web MD listed a few culprits, including Leukemia and Colon Cancer, but I wasn't experiencing any of those symptoms, so I quickly discarded them.  However, I was intrigued by the list symptoms for Prostate Cancer. I'd been experiencing some oddities in the weeks prior and Googled those symptoms which brought up Prostate Cancer as a possible cause.  Now seeing the ugly name rear it's head, once more, I became a little more concerned.

By and by, I never let it get me down, believing "It is what it is".  In years past, I've always believed that if I ever faced off with cancer, that I could and would beat it, so these past few weeks were definitely a test of that belief.

The following week came and I returned to the clinic for a follow-up blood test, only this time, I never received a follow-up phone call from my doctor.  A week came and went, followed by a second and still no telephone call from my doctor.  "No news is good news." they always say, and so I continued on, like there was nothing to worry about.

I saw my doctor, today, for my usual monthly visit and we touched base on the "low platelet" issue.  She chalked it up to a mistake made by the lab, as it's not normal for one's platelet count to fluctuate such a drastic amount within a few days of testing.  We each breathed a sigh of relief, mine much heavier than hers, I'm sure.

I've had a lot of close calls, in recent years, close calls and near misses that I've had to face on my own.  I know I have a small circle of friends that, if I needed to, I could lean on someone's shoulder.  However, I'm not the sort to trouble others with my bullshit.  When I broke my back a couple of years ago, that was a tough ordeal to get through on my own.  I'm not going to lie, but I managed to get through it.  When I had pneumonia, before that and X-rays discovered what was described (to me) as a "black mass" on my lung, I'll admit that was a heavy burden to shoulder, too.  All-in-all, recent years have really been taking their toll on me, emotionally, but god damn it, I'm grappling each one, wrestling it to the ground and rising above it all.  I'm like the Batman, only without the cool threads or the kick ass car.  I'm an excellent survivor.

What Lurks Beneath

The forecast called for dark clouds and rain on the long weekend, but miraculously, the clouds parted, allowing the bright sun to shine through, warming the land beneath it's glow.  Unfortunately, dad had to work this weekend, leaving mom at home with their three young kids.  Sara, the eldest, Jeremy the middle child and little Zack.  Opting for some fun, mom agrees to the pleas of the children to go outside to play.  "Let's go down to the park." she suggests, to the kids, referring to the park located near downtown.

There's lots to do at the park to occupy the creative imaginations of children.  There's the swings, a large slide, shaped like a castle.  There are zip lines and a massive fort made of wood and plastic, surrounded by drifts of silky sand.  It's everything to tucker out three rambunctious children.

The fact that it's a long weekend, coupled with it being early in the morning, no crowds have grown, yet.  The park is virtually empty, allowing the kids to run and chase one another, playing tag and other fun tasks.  Mom relaxes on a nearby bench with a book in hand, occasionally glancing up at her kids and smiling, as she turns the page.

"Mommy?" Jeremy asks, "What's this?"  She looks up to respond to her middle child, laying her eyes on the cylindrical object being held between his fingers.  A mask of panic shrouds her face as she instantly transforms into protective mama bear mode, leaping towards the child, dropping her book in the sand.

Located nearby, I was sweeping leaves out of a drainage grate, a task that normally only takes a couple of minutes, this day, I found myself extending my presence collecting up an overabundance of leaves and sand.  I could hear the kids laughing in the distance, which is always a welcomed sound.  The laughter and glee was momentarily interrupted by a concerned mother, who approached me with a small item clenched between her thumb and forefinger.

"Do you have anything for sharps?" she called out.  I turned my attention to her and was mortified by what she had in her possession.

During my orientation, there was mention of syringes and how they're often found on the playgrounds of our city.  It vexed me that there was now a danger where, if due care and attention was not exacted, there was a chance I could die.  The process of treatment was described in great detail and it was not for the faint of heart.  It really drove home the importance and immediacy of the dangers that lurk out in the world.

So far, I'd been lucky, having not crossed paths with anything as heinous as a syringe, but as I stared at the object in this young mother's hand, I have to admit I was horrified.  The needle appeared clean, as if it just came out of a box, but the end of the needle point was stained with dried blood.  I couldn't help but think how something that appears so small and insignificant could harness a disease powerful enough to kill whomever was unlucky enough to come into direct contact with it.

She handed it off to me, dropping it into the dust bin I had on my person.  She thanked me and returned to her children, who were still laughing and playing nearby, oblivious to the dangers that were lurking about.

The fear I felt now turned into rage.  I couldn't believe that some f*ckin' junkie piece of shit would [willingly] endanger the safety of others, more specifically, children, by hiding their spent syringes in the sand pit, rather than walking them the couple dozen yards down to the receptacle provided nearby.  Granted, whatever shit they just pumped into their vein, probably hindered their actions immediately following, but why the need to do it in the sand pit, to begin with?  Why not go be a f*ckin' loser junkie down by the receptacle bin?  There's nice trees and shit there, to engage their imaginations.

I was told by my co-worker that the city provides a service whereby they provide needles to junkies, free of charge, with hopes that they'll ply their nasty habits, responsibly.  This idea only infuriated me further.  I couldn't believe that this city, where I was born and raised, where I'm proud to call my home, supports the drug habits of these junkies, rather than getting them the assistance they so desperately need.  That's horse shit!

I'm sure this won't be my last encounter with an addicts discarded syringe.  This really opened my eyes and made the problem real.  I always knew it was a factor, but there's something about coming face-to-face with the evil that makes the danger more three-dimensional.

Jeremy got off lucky, as did his siblings and his mom.  No one was poked with the dirty needle, so no one will have to visit the hospital and be on the receiving end of a plethora of painful needles for the next six months.  The drug epidemic in our city, nay, our country, is getting bad.  And those participating are exercising poor judgement.  Why they choose to hide their dirty needles in the sand pit of a children's playground, far exceeds my imagination or logic.  I'll never understand it, just like I'll never understand why these fools turn to illicit drugs in the first place.

Hopefully, with fingers crossed, none of the children who come to any of our fair city's parks will get stuck by a delinquent needle.  But be warned, it's a real danger lurking out there, somewhere.

**While the family described above, was real, some artistic license was
made leading up to their visit to the park.  The names are all fabricated.**

Desperate Measures

What would you do for a Klondike Bar?  I don't know what I'd do for a delightful ice cream treat, but I do know what I'd do for a quarter!

Since the end of June, I've worked for the City of Saskatoon.  More specifically, the swimming pools.  I've worked at the Mayfair Swimming Pool, almost daily, mostly vacuuming the pool.  It's amazing the crap that I find dwindling at the bottom of the pool.  A shit-ton of band-aids, more hair than I can accurately relay onto my readers, but suffice it to say, that when combined, I could almost created my own St. Bernard.  I also find a lot of stones, hair ties, jewelry and some spare change.

It's mostly dimes and nickels that I discover at the bottom of my strainer when I clean the vacuum at shift's end.  Pocketing them, I consider it a small bonus for a job well done.  One day, I was pleased to find a loonie ($1 coin, for my non-Canadian readers).  I celebrated by buying an ice cream cone on the way home.  Today I found a dime, then moments before I was about to shut 'er down for the day, a small silver disc caught my attention in the deepest part of the pool.  "I think that's a twoonie." I said to myself, then set in motion the task of retrieving it from the watery depths.

The vacuum was extra clogged with hair and band-aids, so sucking up the coin proved futile.  I was slightly defeated, but had other tools in my arsenal.  Hell or high water, pardon the pun, I was going to fetch this monetary prize.  I tried the pool net, but the lip is too brunt, making it impossible to snag it.  Next, I affixed the broom head to the telescopic pole and proceeded to "sweep" the coin from the deep end to the shallows next to the stairs at the other end of the pool.  There, I thought I'd have an easier time to grab it.  Failure was imminent, but not an option.  Next I grabbed a small broom and dust bin, hoping to sweep the coin, which I could now see was just a twenty-five cent piece.  That little bugger would not budge, as if it were suctioned to the bottom of the pool.

By this time, my co-worker came over to see what I was fighting so desperately to retrieve.  "Oh.  It's just a quarter.  Leave it.  Someone will grab it." he said, with a snicker.

"Someone IS going to grab it," I said, "And it's going to be ME.  I've worked too hard to just walk away."  It's true.  I worked harder to get that quarter than I did for the previous three hours of work.  Finally, I rolled up my short sleeve and told my companion, "I'm going in."  He told me I was crazy.  That the water was too deep for me to reach the coin, but I was not about to accept defeat.  I laid down on my chest and plunged my arm in.   He was right.  What appeared to only be a couple of feet, turned out to be about three, but I'd come too far.  I plunged my arm in deeper, only this time I got wet.

Glancing down, my shirt was now drenched from my neckline down to about mid-chest.  "Awe, f*ck it!" I said and went for the whole enchilada, plunging my face into the pool.  With my eyes closed, I flung my arm around desperately, but unable to locate the coin.  I had to open my eyes.  "There it is!" I think I yelled, my voice obscured by the chlorinated water.  I grabbed at it, but couldn't pick it off the bottom.  "F*cking fingernails!" I thought to myself.

I lifted my head out of the water, for a quick breath and plunged the top half of my body in.  Fighting with this stupid quarter, pulling it to the side of the pool to raise it high enough to grab it.  My legs flung about, trying to steady the rest of my body, preventing me from falling in, completely.  Somewhere in the struggle, my left shoe flew off my foot and across the concrete pad.  I don't know what I looked like to my compatriot, but it was sure to be a pathetic sight to look upon.

Finally, I stood up, arm raised high above my head, with a single twenty-five cent piece held tightly between my fingers.  Water fell off of me, like water off a duck's back.  I was soaked, but never more proud of a job well done.  Proudly, I limped over to the building, where my shoe had come to rest, slipped it on and marched back to the pump house, where I removed my shirt to wring most of the water out.

What would I do for a Klondike Bar?  I have no f*cking clue.  But for a quarter, I'd plunge my head into a swimming pool and look like a f*cking idiot, doing it!! 

Holy Shnikeys!!!

For years I've heard reports of people calling 911 on a number of fast food restaurants when less than appropriate service was given.  Offenses ranging from breakfast no longer being available to Mickey D's running out of McNuggets.  All these years, upon hearing of these incidents, I was left scratching my head, bewildered by the stupidity and naivety of people's use of the emergency number.  Earlier tonight, I finally came to understand the frustration these people must have experienced.

It's been, at least, a couple of months since my last visit through the drive-thru at McDonald's.  Although buying fast food is hardly within my budget, I've been doing well in not wasting cash, lately and didn't feel like slaving over a hot stove and grill for sustenance tonight.  I was craving apple pie and decided, on the fly, to step into the nearby McDonald's to grab a quick meal deal and some apple pie.

I was shocked when I entered the restaurant, as they've all but done away with counter staff, replacing all with giant video screens, ushering patrons to point and click on what food purchases they crave.  I quickly went to my usual meal, the Quarter Pounder with Cheese and was shocked to learn the price had skyrocketed.  I'd been through the drive-thru a couple of months ago and the cost of the burger meal was a shade over the six dollar mark, but today the screen shone $9.85 back in my face.  That's nearly a four dollar rise.  I figured this was a mistake and went to the one and only counter person left in the establishment.

She was of a, shall we say, landed immigrant persuasion.  There's nothing wrong with that, but English was not her native tongue and had no idea what my concern was.  Confused, she ushered the shift supervisor over to assist me.  Sadly, his English was equally as poor.  I'm thinking that McDonald's had placed the video purchase kiosks in, specifically so people didn't have to battle the substantial language barrier with their kitchen staff.  I explained my concern that it was impossible that the price of a quarter pounder would jump nearly four dollars in less than two months, but through his broken English, I was able to learn that not only had the price of all the food at McDonald's had risen, but it had done so, several times over that two month time period.  I was shocked.

I was flabbergasted, vocalizing my disdain.  I pointed out that I could get a burger across the street, at Wendy's for less money and it would cost less.  He blankly stared at me, incapable of comprehending what I'd just said.  "So you want the quarter pound burger, sir?"

"No thanks!" I said, adding that the price was a rip-off to their customers.  "All I really wanted was apple pie.  Do you know if Wendy's across the street has apple pie?"

"I don't know what they sell there, sir.  Do you still want the quarter pound burger?"

"No, I don't want the burger.  That price is bullsh....  It's complete bull." I said.  "I want to swear, right now, it's so wrong!  Why did the price go up so drastically?  It's obvious you don't need the money for counter staff."

He parted his lips to reveal a crooked smile and answered, "No sir.  It's to adjust for the exchange rate."

"Exchange rate?  But Canadian McDonald's get all their meat and supplies from Canadian suppliers."

He continued to smile at me, "Do you want the apple pie?"  I asked how much and found that aside from the $1 drinks, the apple pie was the only other reasonably priced item on the menu.  $1.65 for two, albeit tiny, apple pies.

I paid for my fruity pastries and drove across the street to the Wendy's.  There were two police cruisers parked in the lot and I was tempted to report the robbery that McDonald's was committing on their loyal patrons, but didn't go through with the farce as I'm not a f*cking lunatic, but I did come to understand the frustration those people must have experienced in their unfortunate dealings with those fast food restaurants.

The burger wasn't any cheaper from Wendy's, but it tasted a helluva lot better than McDonald's ever could on their best day.  At least I got a Vanilla Rootbeer from Wendy's which was worth the extra couple of bucks, in the long run.

A very long time ago, I had decided to boycott McDonald's.  My goal was to not step foot inside or eat any of their food for a ten year stretch, and if my nephew hadn't been born, I would've made it to that goal, but unfortunately, in his youth, he wanted to go to McDonald's and my goal fell short by. literally, about six months.  After that, I continued my visits, as the prices were reasonable, though the food was shit.  Today, the food is STILL shit, but the prices are even shittier.  I feel another boycott coming.  Maybe this time I'll shoot for twenty years!

Impromptu Visit

Years ago, I found myself startled awake from a deep sleep.  Nightmares have never been something I've been prone to.  That's not to say I haven't experienced them, but not at the frequency that I know others have had.  On that particular night, I recall consuming a chocolate Easter egg or bunny before turning in for the night, and I immediately attributed the scary dream to the chocolate intake that evening.  Weeks later, I tried an experiment to see if I could get a repeat performance and while the dream that I had wasn't on par with the fright experienced that first night, the dream that I did have, was messed up nonetheless.

As I stated, I've had nightmares from time-to-time, but not like some unfortunate souls who are bombarded on a nightly basis.  Not to say that the few that I've had, haven't been frightful in their own right.  Usually, the dreams I have, concern the paranormal.  I see ghosts and apparitions in these dreams, but hardly ever anything to cause me to awaken in a panic with beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks, but serious enough to cause me to "sleep with one eye open".  Last night, though, as I began to fall asleep, I experienced something that felt borderline real.

I dreamt that I was on a city street, but not the one where I reside.  It was dark and the buildings around me appeared to be grey and blue in the dying light.  I was alone, when suddenly I was knocked to the ground by an unseen force.  The effort to turn over onto my back was easy as this thing, this entity, spun me over with a simple swipe of this jagged claw.  The creature appeared to be the blackest black I'd ever seen, darker than the shadows that surrounded us.  It had a faint blue aura outlining it's darkness and it's eyes...  It's eyes were the only source of light, albeit dark and grey as the same time.

It snarled at me with a mixture of anger and anguish as it leaped on top of my prone body and began swing it's jagged clawed arms back and forth, slashing me apart, howling and growling throughout the horrific ordeal.  I did my best to shield myself, but was failing miserably.  I can recall being confused and horrified throughout the attack.  Genuinely fearful for very own survival.  Then I woke up.

I looked around the dark room, realizing it was just a dream.  That I was, in fact, in the safety of my bedroom inside my house.  I looked beside me and the space was empty.  I immediately called for my cat, Monkey, to come and "protect me".  In the meantime, I closed my eyes, once more.

My eyes were only closed for a few seconds, an elongated pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkened room better, but when I opened my eyes, my gaze was met with the demon creature that I'd just dreamt about.  Only this time it was in my room, standing before my bed, inches from my face. It stood just under four feet tall, completely devoid of colour.  Darker than the darkness around it.  This time it looked down at me, flashing a jagged smile, as if it were about to finish the job it had began inside my dreamscape.  Just as it raised it's furled claw to take it's first strike, my cat, leaped onto the bed, passing through the darkened creature, which immediately dissipated into a vaporous cloud.

The room was empty.  What little light there was, lit up the room enough for me to recognize that it was just me and the cat who remained.  The remark I'd made earlier, pleading for the cat to come and "protect me", actually came to fruition.  He really did save me, I think.

The cat curled up on his corner of the bed, I folded my arm around him and whispered, "Thank you."  I closed my eyes and we slept peacefully, side-by-side, until morning.

I don't know what the cause for the impromptu visit was.  I don't know what the creature was or if it was actually real.  I do have a vivid imagination, but have never scared myself into a frenzy, before.  I never ate any chocolate before bed.  In fact, I had some chicken and rice about two hours before.  A healthy late night snack rather than a sugary one.  Only time will tell, I suppose.  If I survive the next encounter with this demonic creature, though I'm hoping never to cross paths with it again, I will certainly share that experience in this blog, as well.

    

(Image is similar to the creature that attacked me in my dream, only that one had long pointier ears.)