The photo above was snapped south of San Francisco down a country road. Take a wrong turn and there this guy is, standing about eight feet tall, maybe taller. I won't say where it is exactly because I'm sure the owner doesn't want tourists stopping by. The photo doesn't begin to do it justice, it's a tremendous piece of rusted iron. Not pretty, but masterful and it makes a statement. I think that privacy is greatly valued at that residence-- I've never seen a less inviting sight at a household entrance. They don't need dogs but they have them anyway.
This morning I dreamed I was on a primitive battefield with my father. I had only one pistol, and I talked my father into giving me a second one, which turned out to be a single shot .22 caliber rimfire. I've never seen anything like the strange breech on this contraption, and in the dream I could scarcely figure how to load and operate it. My second pistol had bullets misshapen and dirty.
Within minutes I was confronting two strangers, one wearing a mask. I aimed the single shot pistol at the masked one right? The guy with the mask would be suspect. That crazy little pistol was impossible to fire, the trigger gaurd was too small for my finger, and at that moment the man to my left, without the mask, fired a shot into the left side of my abdomen. It hurt, and I woke up.
I couldn't go back to sleep for awhile, and I thought about the dream and what it meant to be on a battlefield with faulty gear while your father acts as if it's all OK and all is as it should be, handing me a crazy toy and not knowing who my enemies are, why they're enemies, why we're killing each other if we can manage to pull that off at all.
